


Enlightenment

by DustInTheWind



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-03 22:31:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 64,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5309462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustInTheWind/pseuds/DustInTheWind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out that the way to Cato's heart is through his brain. Who knew?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or any of the characters.
> 
> If you haven't read either of my other multi-chapter stories, I should probably tell you that I like a lot of development between my two main characters, so:
> 
> a) training takes place over 3 months rather than a few days.  
> b) each tribute has their own apartment and training facility, which allows for lots of privacy and allows me to ignore pesky district partners.
> 
> Finch's parade look is inspired by this, except her dress is copper, obviously. And so is her hair. Also this is not my tumblr account: http://andshewore.tumblr.com/post/39749148975/tom-ford

Brutus was in 5 for his tribute’s Victory tour when he accidentally peed on the tracker jacker nest. He’d had just a smidge too much to drink that evening at a bar on the outskirts of town and he wandered out to relieve himself in the scrubby desert hedgerow. No one saw him stumble out the side door, so no one thought to warn him that in these parts, the wasps liked to build their homes in the shrubbery. He didn’t understand, at first, what the faint buzzing sound was that interrupted the sibilance of his stream, but as soon as he felt the first sharp sting in his thigh, he knew, and he turned and ran, penis flopping, urine still flowing.

It sounded like a funny story in hindsight,  but he could have easily died, if not for the powerline worker who’d found him just as the awful, searing pain began to give way to the hallucinations, and Brutus knew it.

Brutus also knew that said powerline worker, whose name, he learned when he woke 2 days later, was David Crossley, could have just left him there to rot. They were none too fond of him in any of the outlying districts, and 5 was no exception.

But David Crossley, known for his heart of gold, had immediately sprinted into the bar to call for a doctor and had returned to crouch down at Brutus’s side and pluck the stingers from his flesh.

And what was more, he came to visit Brutus in the hospital after he regained consciousness, bringing along his little 7-year-old daughter Finch, an inquisitive bundle of knees and elbows and tangled red hair adorned with a pair of copper-wire rimmed eyeglasses.

“What is 2 like? My teacher says you have prairie dogs there. What are they like? Have you ever seen one? I asked her what prairie meant, but she yelled at me and made me stand in the corner. Do you know what prairie means? Does it rain a lot there? What do you eat? What is masonry? What’s the Capitol like? I heard people there have blue skin and purple skin. Is that true? How does their skin get like that?”

Exhausted as he was, Brutus had felt enough gratitude to at least indulge the man’s daughter a little by giving the shortest answers possible to the volley of questions she fired at him, but her father cut her off when she asked him if he’d killed people in his games.

“That’s enough, Little Bird,” he said. “This nice man is very tired, and I’m sure your questions aren’t helping any.” He turned back to Brutus. “Well, Sir, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. I heard the nurses saying you’d be able to leave the day after tomorrow. Safe travels to 4.”

Brutus, who wasn’t used to such kindness from anyone, let alone from total strangers who should by all rights hate him, actually choked up, and, unable to speak, he offered David Crossley his hand in thanks.

xxxxxxxxxx

When he returned to the Academy at the end of the tour, Marcus, one of the other instructors, sought him out immediately.

“You know Cato Hadley? From the 7-year-old class?”

“That the little runt with the blond hair and the gray eyes?”

“That’s the one. He beat up Rocky today.”

“ _Rocky_?!” Rocky was 10 years old. Large for his age. Generally considered the top of his class in both hand-to-hand and swordsmanship.

“Yeah. It was a sight to see. And Rocky, that little shit, he came away blubbering like a baby.” Marcus rolled his eyes, disgust dripping from his voice. “We had to pull the little guy off of him.”

“We?”

“Yeah. Me and Enobaria. I wondered if maybe you’d want to take him under your wing. See what you can make of him. Kid’s got potential. I got a good feeling about this one. I think we’ll be sending him into the Third Quarter Quell.”

Brutus found Cato sitting on one of the benches outside of the weapons building, digging in the dirt with a long, pointed stick.

“Hey there son, I heard you beat up a kid twice your size today,” he said, taking a seat beside him.

“Yeah.” The boy’s voice was dull, and his cheeks were tear-stained.

“What’s wrong?” Brutus asked. “Are those bothering you?” He pointed to Cato’s hands, the knuckles split and bleeding.

“No.” The boy scrubbed at his cheek with his hand.

“Well then what is it?”

“I’m stupid.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Rocky said I was. And he’s right. I can’t read like the other kids. I can’t get my letters right. And I failed my math quiz. I heard the teachers talking about how they were gonna have to put me in rem...rem...remi--”

“Remedial classes?” Brutus finished for him.

“Yeah. See! I can’t even say _that_ right.”

Brutus laughed at him but it was a warm laugh. “No seven-year-old can say remedial. Look, so you’re stupid. So what? It doesn’t matter. Everyone’s very impressed with what you did. I wish I’da been there to see it. I came to ask if you’d like to start training just with me a few times a week.”

Cato’s face practically lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah. But no more crying, you hear? Victors don’t cry.”

“Yes sir,” Cato said, sitting up a little taller.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Hey there Foxy.”

 _Great. Wonderful. Lovely._ Finch didn’t look up from her book. The nickname, she knew, was a facetious one, meant to mock her about both her sly, vulpine features and her undesirability to the opposite sex.

“I said hey there Foxy.”

She still didn’t look up.

So Garrett Cooper, the richest, most popular, most gorgeous, most sought-after boy in the entire senior class, plucked the book from her hands and tossed it into the trash.

Then he plopped down next to her and took the other half of the one roll she had for lunch right out from under her and stuffed it in his mouth.

Finch gave up. “What do you want?”

“I need you to write my report on the First Quarter Quell.” Crumbs spilled out of his mouth and onto his lap, and Finch wondered why on earth the other girls found him attractive.

“Go to hell.”

His hand was in her hair immediately, yanking her head backwards.

“You write that fucking report and give it to me tomorrow morning or I’ll snap these in half,” and he swiped her eyeglasses right off her face, dangling them just above her reach. Finch could feel the entire lunchroom’s eyes on her, could hear the titters from the tables where the popular girls and boys sat, and the nervous laughter from the ones where the less popular ones stationed themselves.

“Fine,” she growled, her face warm. She hated feeling humiliated, _hated_ it. She snatched her glasses back from him.

“Good girl,” he said and patted her cheek mockingly as he stood up to walk away.

Finch wanted to cry but mostly she was just relieved that it was over with. At least for the day.

“She’s such a fucking nerd and she’s so weird looking. She’ll probably die a virgin.” she heard Lacey Smalls say in her soft high-pitched voice, and her whole table erupted into giggles.

xxxxxxxxx

She figured out how to get that bitch Lacey back later that afternoon.

She exited school along with everyone else, but waited around the corner until after everyone had left, as usual, and then she began her routine.

Shimmy up the drainpipe.

Crouch low to the roof and slip through the access panel and down into the maintenance room.

Open the door, set up the ladder in the hallway, climb said ladder, slide the ceiling tile to the side.

Hop up into the ceiling (careful not to step on any tiles of course--balance was key here).

Slip into the air duct, slide along it for about ten yards.

Drop down--carefully--into the ceiling above the cafeteria storeroom.

Two tiles forward, four to the right. Drop down onto the top shelf of the stand that held the commercial-sized cans of vegetables.

Climb on down to the floor.

Fill up her knapsack with rolls and cheese and apples (just enough that no one would notice anything missing).

Repeat the whole process in reverse.

But today, just as she was almost to the ceiling, she glanced down and to her right and she saw the ketchup packets.

An idea formed in her mind.

She laughed and swiped up one--just one--and then she swung herself up into the ceiling.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Oh my god, Lacey!” Gretchen Nichols hissed, just as the entire hallway started to point and laugh as Lacey strode confidently down the center of it after first period.

“What?”

Gretchen grabbed her arm and whispered into her ear, and then Lacey’s eyes widened in horror and she craned her neck around to look at the bright red splotch staining the spot right between her ass cheeks.

“Gross!” Garrett exclaimed.

Lacey erupted into tears and fled into the bathroom. Finch wondered how long it would take her to figure out that it was just ketchup and not blood.

The most brilliant part of the whole thing wasn’t even part of Finch’s plan; she’d had no idea that Lacey would wear a white skirt to school that day.

xxxxxxxxxx

Butterflies in his stomach. It sounded so girly. So weak. But Cato had to admit that it was an apt description for what he was feeling right now. He had never been so excited, so impatient, in his life.

The video seemed interminable this year. He wanted to punch Paris, who seemed to be doing everything--walking across the stage to the glass bowl, drawing out the female tribute’s name, walking back to the microphone, unfolding the slip of paper, taking in a deep breath before reading out the name of some girl Cato didn’t know (it didn’t matter anyway; Clove was going and everyone knew it)--in sloooooooooow mmmmooooooootshuuuuun.

And then finally.

“Sai An--”

“I volunteer!” Cato called before Paris even finished announcing the chosen male’s name, one foot already in the center aisle (he had purposely chosen the spot closest to the inside and at the front of the 18 year old boys’ section, and, of course, no one had stopped him).

“Well my goodness! _Two_ volunteers!” Paris exclaimed, as though this didn’t happen every year. As though he hadn’t already known exactly which two students from the Academy would be joining him onstage. As though he hadn’t met them in person the day before.

xxxxxxxxxx

Reaping Day was the same every year. The sun beating down onto the back of Finch’s neck, the dust coating her legs. Stupid Prince Peabody (who named their kid Prince? Honestly? And the alliteration. _Really_?) sashaying to the front of the stage in his ridiculous white high-heeled boots and overly enunciating his words as he gushed about the special message brought to the people of District 5 “all the way from the Cap-i-tol.” The awkward feeling of being squished in like sardines with the other girls in her age group, but still alone, with no brood of girlfriends to link arms with and gossip to.

The same sickening sense of terror that gnawed at her stomach and made her break out in a cold sweat.

The only thing that changed was that each time Finch moved further and further away from the stage, and this year, for her last reaping, she found herself in the very back row.

That, and, this year, the name that Prince Peabody drew from the glass bowl was hers.

_Wait, what?_

“Miss Crossley? Finch Crossley? Where are you dear?”

Finch couldn’t answer, her mouth frozen in a perfect 0. But the girls to either side and in front of her answered for her without a word, turning to look at her while stepping back a pace, as though she had some kind of contagious disease. _Like leprosy or the black plague._

“There you are! Come on up, girl. Don’t be shy!”

And then she felt one of the Peacekeepers that ringed the perimeter of the holding pen reach across the rope enclosure and nudge her, and she made her way through the sea of blurry faces that parted effortlessly. _Like Moses and the Red Sea._

Finch--normally so graceful and lithe-- was so out of it that she actually tripped over her own feet as she made her way up the rough wooden staircase and onto the stage, bruising her knees and catching a sliver in the palm of one of her hands.

“Oh my! Careful now dear!” Prince said as she picked herself up, and there were a few titters from the front of the crowd, but for the most part no one laughed at her clumsiness. The air in their lungs was too busy expelling sighs of relief if they were on the girls’ side, and being held in fear on the boys’ side.

xxxxxxxxxx

They bawled. Her brothers. Hyde was 11 and Gavin was 9, and she’d filled in as their mother for the last three years, since their real one had died of cancer.

And her father, when they wheeled him in, was devastated. He was utterly undone and he wailed as he grasped the fabric of his daughter’s dress in his hands.

“Take it, take it,” he cried, pressing the thin copper band that had served as her mother’s wedding ring into her palm.

Finch was shaking but her pity for her father and her brothers was stronger than her fear. It was so cruel. It was so unfair. To have their mother and wife and now their only sister and daughter ripped from them.

And then the fear did take over, but it wasn’t for herself. _How are they going to eat?_

But before she could try to come up with a solution, the Peacekeepers interrupted and said it was time to go, and she kissed them all achingly and whispered goodbye.

She didn’t promise that she would come back to them. They didn’t beg her to try.

They all knew that her days were numbered.

xxxxxxxxxx

They were in the train on the way to the Capitol and Cato was still too amped up to pay any attention as the rest of them watched the replays of the other reapings.

“Oh shit,” Brutus said when they called the District 5 female’s name.

“What?” said Enobaria.

“Remember when I got stung by those tracker jackers in 5?”

“Yeah.”

Brutus sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead. “The guy who found me. That’s his daughter.”

“You remember that?”

“How could I forget? He could have left me for dead. David Crossley. That’s his name. And I couldn’t exactly remember what his daughter was called, but I knew it was some kind of bird. And I’ll never forget that red hair. So distinctive. She was about 7 then. So she’s the right age now. Shit.”

“Sucks to be her,” said Cato, tossing a peanut into the air and catching it in his mouth.

Clove snickered.

xxxxxxxxxx

Finch and Tate Odom, the fifteen-year-old male tribute, sat on the train in terrified silence as Prince chattered on and on about god knew what. Something about hot chocolate and rose bubble baths and a bunch of other shit they’d get to experience in the Capitol.

“Shut up Prince,” said a gruff voice from behind them. Finch turned her head to see Rush Petersen, the youngest of District 5’s living Victors. He had won the 49th games at the age of 16, mostly, by his own admission, because they’d been held in a desert environment that year and he’d been the only one who’d known how to survive the harsh conditions.

He held a glass of ice water in each hand and he held them out to Finch and Tate before plopping down in the armchair across from them.

“First of all,” he said. “I’m sorry this happened to you. But I promise that I will do everything in my power to try to help you both. Today, though, I think we should start by watching the recaps of the reapings.”

District 1: The girl, Glimmer was gorgeous. Long blond hair, big brown eyes, tall and slender with curves in all the right places. She looked like she belonged on the arm of a rich bureaucrat, wearing diamonds and sipping champagne. Marvel was also quite good looking. Tall, dark and handsome, though a little lean for a male Career in Finch’s opinion. He had a wide goofy grin and his eyes sparkled merrily.

District 2: Clove. Tiny and dark with a surly expression. Finch wondered how anyone that slight could be a Career, until the commentators announced that she was known for her prowess at throwing knives. Cato. Tall and built and blond with gray eyes as cold as ice. His expression was one of pride and contempt. It was insufferable, really.

District 3: Brigita. Small with dark hair and big, kind-looking eyes. She stared off mournfully to the side and Finch assumed she was looking at her family. Aaron. Also small with dark hair. Bawling his eyes out. _Bloodbath casualty_. Finch wasn’t trying to be insensitive, but really if she looking at things realistically…

District 4: Serena. As gorgeous as Glimmer. Long, thick straight hair so black it looked almost blue. Tall but slender. _East Asian descent_ , Finch thought as she looked at her facial features. Volunteered. So probably a Career. Lucan. Golden and lean, and not entirely unlike Finnick Odair. Volunteered. Probably also a Career.

District 5--”Ok, can we not watch this?” Finch broke in. “I was there. I know what happened. I tripped like an idiot in front of everyone.”

“Alright,” Rush said. “The reapings are still going on anyway. I think they’re on District 11 right now. We’ll watch the rest of them later this evening. And, yes, we can skip watching our own. Anyway, your biggest threats--the Careers--have all already been reaped. They’re all lethal, of course, but the favorites to win this year are Cato and Clove. There’s quite a bit of contention and debate among the citizens of the Capitol as to which will win.”

“No, they’ve dropped that subject for the time being and now all they’re talking about is how the Third Quarter Quell twist hasn’t been announced,” Prince broke in.

Finch had completely forgotten. “Do you know what it is?” she asked the escort.

“I do indeed,” Prince said smugly. They all stared at him.

“Well are you gonna tell us what it is or not?” Rush finally asked.

“Ahhh, I can’t. But you’ll find out, Rush. All in good time.”

xxxxxxxxxx

It was after dinner that Brutus called Cato in to join him. He was leaning forward from his perch on the couch and he had the screen paused on the face of the female tribute from 5.

“Look son. I gotta do something for the girl. Something to help her.”

“What do you mean help her? You’re _my_ mentor. And _I’m_ gonna win.”

“I know but I’m going to make things easier for her. And you’re going to help me.”

“Fine. Done. I’ll slice her head off first thing at the Cornucopia.”

Brutus sighed. “Maybe. Maybe that’s what we’ll do. A quick and painless death. I’m just worried she’ll be one of those tributes who doesn’t run into the Cornucopia.”

“Just tell her to. Tell her to run straight for me and I’ll get it over with.”

“Are you an idiot? I can’t just say that. ‘Hey I owe your father one. So just run right for my tribute so you can be his first kill.’ And if she runs away from the Cornucopia, who knows what will happen. It could be a long and painful process for her before she dies. Some tribute could wound her and she could get an infection, or she could break her leg or something and then she could die of dehydration, you know. If she can’t get up to find water.”

“Well that’s her fucking problem.”

“No, maybe we can teach her a few things at least. You know, some survival skills, some basic self-defense. Keep her from suffering too much.”

Cato made a face, but Brutus gave him a stern look.

“After everything I’ve done for you, boy, you owe me this. I’ll talk to her mentor. A couple hours a week is all I’ll need you for. For the hand-to-hand stuff. I can teach her the other stuff without you."

“Fine,” Cato sighed and looked at the tv, the screen paused on the girl from 5. She was a strange-looking scrawny little thing with red hair and glasses. Cato was not looking forward to this. If she’d been hot, or even cute, he wouldn’t have minded so much. He would have gotten in her pants. But she was neither of those things.

Brutus had hit play, and Cato snorted with laughter as she fell up the stairs.

“She’s hopeless. And she’s a ginger,” he said.

“Yeah? And?”

“They don’t have souls you know.”

“I’m pretty sure you and I are the soulless ones my friend.”

xxxxxxxxxx

“You’re gonna _what_?” Finch asked the doctor the next day.

“Correct your vision. Using lasers. So you won’t need to wear your glasses anymore.”

“You can do that?!”

“Yes. We do it all the time in the Capitol. And before Panem as we know it existed---back when it was the United States--they were doing it then too. It’s foolproof, nothing to worry about,” she said.

But Finch wasn’t worried. She was fascinated. “That’s soooo cool! When are you gonna do it?”

“Right now,” the doctor laughed. “Once we’ve tested your vision so we know exactly how to adjust the laser.”

It burned a little, and for a few hours afterward Finch felt like she had grit in her eyes, but otherwise, she thought it just may have been the most interesting experience of her life. The doctor, sensing her enthusiasm, happily explained every step of the process in great detail.

“Now, a couple of centuries ago, people had to wait for a few days for the cuts from the laser to heal,” the doctor told her as she squeezed some drops into her eyes. “But these drops make them heal completely in a couple of hours. So wait at least 3 before you put any eye makeup on her,” she said, turning to Fascinia, the stylist who had been assigned to Finch.

“Will do.”

Finch was ecstatic as Fascinia led her out of the medical section and to the beautification center.

But Fascinia was over it and onto Finch’s appearance. “I was so excited when I saw you on tv,” the stylist gushed. “I thought to myself, oh my god, the things I can do with her!”

Finch was confused. _Do with me? But I’m not pretty like Serena or Glimmer_. But she was more worried than confused. She’d seen some of the horrendous outfits that tributes had been forced to wear for the parade, and she eyed the woman across from her dubiously.

“Don’t worry,” Fascinia reassured her. “I’m not the same stylist who did 5 last year. God that was awful. I think you’ll like what I do with you."

xxxxxxxxxx

“Ok!” Fascinia said as she led Finch over to the mirror. “Open your eyes and have a look.”

Finch was confused at first. That...that wasn’t _her_ was it? That _woman_? She wiggled the fingers of her left hand and her reflection echoed the movement. Yep. That was her.

Copper. Almost everything was copper.

Copper. A conductor of power and Finch had never felt so powerful in her life.

She looked regal. She looked fierce. She looked _sexy_.

Her hair was piled on top of her head but otherwise had been left alone.

Her lids had been painted copper, but her eyes were ringed with a thick black kohl that winged out and up dramatically at the corners.

Her gown, long-sleeved and crew-necked and clinging to every little curve she’d never known she had, was covered in shimmering copper sequins so fine that it looked molten.

She felt like a queen. A desert queen. _An Egyptian queen_ she thought. _Like Nefertiti or Cleopatra_.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato was not particularly enthused about his outfit for the tribute parade. It was true that it showed off his perfectly sculpted arms (of which he was very proud), but the wings on the side of his head made him feel a bit silly. He glared at his stylist. _Fucking idiot_ he thought.

Still. He’d known this was the price to pay when he’d signed on for this whole thing. Besides, no one would dare laugh at him after he’d won the games.

He surveyed the other tributes coldly as they began to line up, but he halted his gaze when he reached the chariot three places back. Was that 5? Because that...that was _not_ what he had seen on tv the day before.

“God I wish I’d gotten 5’s stylist,” Clove lamented beside him. “If she could do that with _that_ awkward thing, imagine what she could have done with me.”


	2. Chapter 2

“What the hell kind of name is Finch?”

They were staring at one another in the sparring room in Cato’s training complex. Brutus had just introduced them to each other, and so far, it was not going well. Although Cato had agreed to his mentor’s plan, he was resentful of having his time wasted. Finch had been surprised when Rush had called her out of her room two nights before, just after the Tribute Parade, and she had emerged to find her mentor standing there with Brutus. She had a fuzzy memory of meeting the victor at the medical clinic years ago, but she hadn’t thought he’d remember who she was. She’d been taken aback when he’d said he’d like to train her for about four hours a week, but she agreed. She would have been a fool not to, and she understood why he wanted to help her. But she did not understand why this lout of a tribute had to have anything to do with it.

“It’s a bird,” she said with hostility.

Cato studied her. She didn’t look like a bird. Her whole face, and especially her eyes, which were small and narrow and turned up at the outer corners, had a sly, secretive look. “You don’t look like a bird. You look like a fox. You have a fox face.”

The exasperated look she gave him made him laugh. “Aww what’s wrong foxface? You know, at your reaping, you looked like this,” and he mocked her, forming an 0 with his mouth. “So maybe fish face instead?”

Finch ignored his comment. “And what the hell kind of name is Cato?” she asked, although she knew its origins very well.

“Alright you two, play nice,” Brutus broke in.

“That’s a silly thing to say considering we’ll be trying to kill each other in three months,” Finch said.

“Ha! You mean that’s a silly thing to say considering _I’ll_ be killing _you_ in three months.”

xxxxxxxxxx

It had not been the most pleasant hour of her life, but Finch did come away from it feeling as though she’d learned something useful. They’d practiced dodging and blocking strikes, and Brutus told her that it was important for her to watch her opponent’s eyes, so she’d know what part of her body they were planning to strike or stab. And she hadn’t really had to touch Cato very much...so that was good.

Brutus had told his tribute to start out in slow motion and then gradually increase his speed, but just as Finch had suspected, Cato was something of a bully, and almost immediately came at her full-on. She’d been anticipating this, however, and lightly twirled out of his reach. He’d put so much force into his action that he wasn’t able to correct himself and switch directions to catch her. He was surprised, she could tell, at how quick and agile she was.

Afterwards, Brutus had accompanied her back up to her own training facility, which consisted of a handful of rooms, each with their own purpose, such as weapons, weights, hand-to-hand combat and survival skills. The whole thing was surrounded by a track an eighth of a mile in circumference, and there was a climbing wall at one end of the track, that went up about forty feet. The ceiling was crisscrossed with a mesh of ropes and netting, and Finch’s hands itched to crawl on up and play around.

“Here,” Brutus said, and he handed her a rough training schedule that he’d mapped out for her. Mostly running and climbing and survival skills, but some practice with weapons. “We’ll do two hours a week with Cato. Tuesday and Thursday mornings, 8 to 9. Then he has to get back to his own training. I’ll meet with you Mondays and Wednesdays from 8 to 9, right here, and we can work on your survival skills and weapons. Don’t bother with the weights. There’s no point for someone as small as you.” Then he took her into her weapons room and started to show her how to use the video tutorials that had been uploaded to the computer embedded into the wall to teach herself. But she waved dismissively. She understood exactly how to use that kind of technology, and he shrugged and stopped talking. “Knives and the bow and arrow,” he said. “Forget about the swords and the spears. Too heavy.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“Yeah.” Brutus turned to leave but stopped abruptly. “How’s your father?”

Finch shrugged. “He’s ok I guess. In a wheelchair. He fell from about 30 feet up six years ago. While he was at work. He’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

“Jesus. Well...that sucks.”

“Yeah. Maybe you could visit him when you’re on tour this year?”

“What makes you think I’ll be going on the tour this year?”

Finch snorted. “Please. I’m not stupid. One of those two is going to win.”

Brutus opened his mouth, but then thought better of it and just nodded.

“You know what the quarter quell twist is?” Finch asked, eager to change the subject. “Rush says he has no idea.”

Brutus shook his head. “Un-uh. Only the gamemakers and the escorts know.”

xxxxxxxxxx

It was while she up playing around among the ropes in the ceiling of her training complex that she found the ventilation system. It was industrial sized--much wider than the one at school in five, and she hopped up into it immediately.

It was never-ending and it was _awesome_. Although she almost got lost a few times. She could peek into all of the other tributes’ training complexes and gamemakers’ meeting rooms. She discovered that the girl from 12 could shoot an arrow like it was nobody’s business, and that the boy (well, man really) from 11 was lethal with a scythe.

So it was also terrifying, in addition to being awesome.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Hey there Foxface,” Cato greeted her the next morning. Brutus had not yet arrived.

“Cato the Douchebag,” she acknowledged.

The epithet earned her a punch to the shoulder that hurt like a motherfucker. This guy was a lot stronger Garrett Cooper. That much was clear. “What did you just call me?”

Against her better judgment, Finch decided to keep mouthing off. He wasn’t allowed to _really_ hurt her anyway. “Cato the Douchebag. To distinguish you from Cato the Elder and Cato the Younger.”

Another punch in the same spot. And then a confused face. “Wait. Who is Cato the Elder?”

Finch rolled her eyes and rubbed her aching shoulder. “He was a Roman senator.”

“A what?”

“Roman. Politician. A long time ago.”

She thought that would be the end of it and he’d go back to picking on her, but to her surprise, his face took on a look of curiosity.

“Roman? My name is Roman?”

“Yeah. You know about Rome?”

“Of course,” Cato said. “It was a great military civilization that existed centuries ago.” He sounded like he was parroting it word for word from another source.

Still, Finch was surprised. “What else do you know about it?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. They just told us in school that they were great warriors. Like all of us from the Academy in 2. And that’s why me and Clove’s outfits at the parade were Roman.”

“Oh.” So he didn’t know much after all.

“So this Cato the Elder guy. The...what did you say he was?”

“Senator.”

“Yeah. Tell me about him.”

“I really don’t think…” He raised his fist and stepped toward her menacingly. “Fine,” she sighed.

But she didn’t get far. She only told him that Cato had been high up in the Roman military and had been known for his ruthlessness in battle and his self-discipline when Brutus walked in and they got down to business. And that was that. He forgot all about it.

Or so Finch thought.

But the next time she saw him, when Brutus stepped out of the room to talk to Enobaria about something, he brought up the topic of his name again. This time they were in his weapons room, and she was learning to dodge a knife attack at close range, and how to disarm her opponent.

“So Cato the Younger,” he said, dropping his hand and all pretense of sparring.

“What about him?”

“Who was he?”

“I’m not doing this with you. I’m supposed to be learning how to defend myself. Not teaching you shit that’s way above your intellectual capabilities.”

His face turned red and he had her by the hair in an instant. She saw the flash of his knife at her temple and she yelped in panic, bracing herself for the cut. But it never came.

Instead, he let go of her, and there he stood, his knife in one hand and a lock of her red hair that he’d yanked from her bun in the other.

“You dick!” she cried, holding her hands up to her head. She could feel the spot where he’d chopped off her hair. “It’s gonna look so awkward!”

“Then it suits the rest of you,” he spat. “Now tell me about Cato the Younger or I’ll cut off another piece.” His hands were in her hair, tugging hard and steady, and her head was starting to ache.

“Oh my god, fine! He was Cato the Elder’s great grandson and he rebelled against the emperor and he killed himself with his own sword!”

“What the hell is going on?” Brutus demanded as he reentered the weapons room. “Cato! What the fuck?!”

Cato let go of her hair and she twisted away from him. “She was getting mouthy.”

Brutus sighed. “Clearly you two need to cool off. No more today. Put the knife back Cato.”

So he did as Brutus ordered, and he tossed the lock of her hair behind the knife rack before stalking out without looking back at her.

xxxxxxxxxx

“I _apologize_ ,” Cato said to her sullenly the next time she entered his training complex. Brutus, who had been shooting him meaningful glances, nodded in satisfaction.

“Now you two don’t need to be friends,” he said. “Nor should you be for that matter. But there’s no reason you can’t be civil to one another until the games start. Then you can go at each other’s throats all you want.”

“How come she didn’t have to apologize?!” he complained. He sounded like a whiny 13 year old girl. It was incredibly unattractive.

“She didn’t lop off part of your hair. And whatever she said that pissed you off...well sometimes I think you could stand to be knocked down a peg or two boy. Now let’s quit wasting our time and get to work.”

She was learning to get herself out of a chokehold today, and she was really quite worried that he was going to make the next hour hell on her trachea, but she was pleasantly surprised to find that, though he was cold and clearly annoyed, he wasn’t any rougher than necessary. She suspected that the close eye Brutus was keeping on him had something to do with it.

Still, she was grateful, and she felt a little guilty about implying that he was stupid the day before. “Thanks,” she said politely at the end of their time together, as Brutus was walking out the door. “And...I’m...sorry for what I said. I didn’t realize you actually cared to know any of that stuff about the Catos.”

He shrugged. “I think it’s cool that my name is Roman.”

“A lot of names are.”

“Yeah? Like which ones?”

“Brutus.” Cato’s eyes lit up. “Caesar. Claudius. Plutarch. Seneca. Coriolanus.”

“Who was Brutus?”

“I’ll tell you on Tuesday. It’s time for me to go back up to my floor.”

He looked disappointed. “No. You come back down here tonight. At 10. I’ll be free then and you can tell me.”

“I’m not coming down here. What will Rush think? And Prince?”

“Fuck Rush. And fuck Prince.” When she didn’t say anything, he sighed. “Fine. I’ll come to you. Be in your sparring room at 10pm.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll pay for it Tuesday morning.”

xxxxxxxxxx

He wasn’t bluffing. And she knew it. So she showed up in her sparring room at 10pm exactly. He was already there.

“So Brutus…” he said.

And she launched into the assassination of Julius Caesar, surprised at the intense look on his face as he listened to her. “Did they wear outfits like the one I did for the parade?” he asked when she was done.

“Umm, sort of? Not entirely sure. Probably not those stupid wings on their head though. Ow!” she cried when he punched her still-bruised shoulder.  

He must have really been embarrassed about his costume, because he lifted his fist again and landed another punch on the same spot.

“Oh my god I’ll tell you more if you stop punching me!” she cried desperately.

He dropped his fist and backed away. 

She told him all about gladiators and the Coliseum and about how Rome expanded west and how they fell while he sat there, cross-legged and absolutely rapt, until she yawned and her eyelids felt heavy.

“Please. Can we stop? I’m tired.”

“Yeah, sure.” She was surprised at his uncharacteristic deference. Maybe he was getting tired too. It had to be at least 11:30.

“Alright, I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“No come back here tomorrow night at 10. Tell me more stuff.”

She was about to protest, but then she realized that she had actually enjoyed having the chance to share her knowledge with someone else. She’d had no one to talk to about it at home. No one. She didn’t want her father to know that she’d acquired it, and she didn’t want to endanger Hyde or Gavin. And she hadn’t had any friends so…”Yeah...ok.”

xxxxxxxxxx

“So how do you know all this stuff?” he greeted her when she walked in the next night.

“My mother was an engineer. Well, computer science more specifically.”

“Computers? But you’re from 5.”

“There are engineers and scientists in 5. Our power systems are computerized. I’ll bet you have some in 2 too. You just don’t know it.”

“Wait, you said she was an engineer.”

“Yeah. She’s dead. Died three years ago.”

“Oh. What does this have to do with you knowing all this random shit?”

“The government keeps all kinds of information in their database. All the stuff we’re not supposed to see. Like history and books that have been banned and plays and all kinds of stuff from before the Uprisings.”

“They let your mom see that stuff?”

“No. She figured out how to access it herself. Through the back door, if you know what I mean. And then she taught me how to ‘access’ it. So I read all kinds of things.”

He looked at her like she was a traitor. “They could kill you for that you know. You’re a criminal.”

“Ha! I’m dead anyway. Go ahead. Go tell on me.”


	3. Chapter 3

He liked the stories about the warriors best, she figured out quickly. So she told him about Beowulf and King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, which led to a whole new lesson about medieval warfare.

One day she told him the story of Titus Andronicus, that it was play written by a guy named William Shakespeare, and how in the play, Titus’s daughter, Lavinia, gets raped and has her hands cut off and her tongue cut out and how her father, in revenge, kills her rapists and bakes them into a pie and serves them to their mother.

“Oh my god that was awesome!” He cried when she was finished. She gave him a look. “I mean, not the rape part,” he amended hastily. “But the pie part. What else did this guy write?”

So she told him about Macbeth and about Hamlet and about Romeo and Juliet. He didn’t really care for that last one, he told her.

She moved onto the Arabian Nights, and he didn’t mind them, but they weren’t his favorite, he said as he adjusted her archery stance. At some point, it had occurred to him that maybe he should repay her, and so they spent at least part of every night practicing more hand-to-hand and archery and knife throwing. And he taught her some survival skills to supplement the ones that Brutus had started with and that she had taught herself.

“Never these,” he said, pointing to a picture of a berry he’d brought up on the computer screen in the survival skills room. “You’ll be dead in seconds.”

 _Nightlock_ , they were called. “They look like blueberries.”

“No, no, look, you can tell the difference at the stem end. It’s darker than the rest of the berry, and see how it’s kind of star shaped? Right there where you pull off the stem.”

He absolutely hated fairy tales, so she gave up after Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast. She figured it had to do with the romance component, and that was part of it, he said. But mostly, he didn’t understand. “The women I know aren’t like that. Clove and Enobaria and Lyme. Even you. None of you sit around waiting for a man to come save you. And none of you would fall in love with a guy who locked you up.”

“Well, things were different back then.”

“What do you mean?”

So then she had to go into sexism and how women were treated and she wished she’d never brought up fairy tales to begin with because he asked _so. many. god. damned. questions_. He was like a 5-year-old. Except a hell of a lot smarter.

When they were finished with that, she moved onto teaching him about the Vikings, and he absolutely loved it. It was his favorite topic so far, he said.

“Makes sense. With your coloring, I’ll bet some of your ancestors were Vikings.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, it’s possible.”

“Wait then how come I’m here?”

So that was a whole nother conversation, for the next night, about immigrants and Native Americans. And then that led to the American Colonies and the Revolutionary War.

And that led to an overview of the history of England, and she was amazed at how he hung on every word, and how he asked such intelligent, insightful questions.

And philosophers. He _loved_ them. Confucius and Locke and Rousseau. She was shocked, and regretful that she knew so little about them. She could really only tell him the very basics about each one.

One day, he opened with a personal question. “What are you?”

“Huh?”

“If you think maybe I’m Viking, what are you?”

“Well I don’t know that you’re Viking, I’m just speculating. But I think I’m English and Scottish.”

“Like Macbeth?”

“Maybe.”

“Also, most of these people from history you tell me about, they’re men. Is this that whole sexism thing?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Tell me about a woman. I’m bored with men.”

So she told him about Cleopatra and Nefertiti and then they were on to Egyptian society. The pyramids, the Nile river, the mummies, the Sphinx, even the clothes and the makeup.

“ _You_ were like an Egyptian queen,” he said out of nowhere.

“Huh?”

“Well, sort of. Your eyes. At the parade. They did that to them.”

Finch just looked at him. She had no idea he’d even noticed her at the parade.

And then she saw it. The faintest of blushes just under the skin of his cheeks.

So she launched into the story of the discovery of King Tut’s tomb, before things could get any more uncomfortable, and she didn’t miss the look of relief that crossed his features.

xxxxxxxxxx

It was like a drug, the information she shared, and he couldn’t get enough. It was his favorite part of the day and he hated it when she started to look sleepy because he knew that meant an end to their evening, but he didn’t have the heart to try to force her to stay awake and keep going.

He knew the signs. Everything would slow down. Her words, her breath, her hands as she rubbed them back and forth across her shins, her knees hugged to her chest. Even her blinking would slow, her lids opening and closing lazily, like a cat’s.

He’d leave regretfully, his brain buzzing with stories and people and places and ideas that bounced back and forth inside of his skull, leaving shimmering trails in their wake until his head felt full of light. Sometimes he was so wound up he couldn’t fall asleep until 2.

He wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about what he’d learned the next day so he’d get distracted in training and they’d all yell at him to focus. Brutus and Clove and the others. The other Careers gave him puzzled looks, but knew better than to anger him by making any comments, since he was clearly the strongest of all of them and the natural leader. Only Clove would mouth off. “Earth to Cato,” she’d call out. “You leave your brain in the apartment today?”

 _On the contrary. I’m just now finding it_ he would think.

After dinner he really started to get fidgety with the anticipation of seeing her again. He couldn’t even speculate on what wonderful new thing she’d talk about. It was like getting a present every day.

Brutus laughed at him. He’d figured out long ago that Cato was sneaking up to Finch’s floor every night, but he didn’t tell the others. He just let them think that Cato was only continuing to see her two hours a week and that he didn’t like her.

“I wonder how Glimmer would feel about this if she knew,” he teased one day, just as Cato was about to slip out of the door. “All the time you spend with 5.”

Cato flushed bright red. “It’s not like that,” he protested.

“Yeah? Hmm. I’ve noticed you’re a little less enthused with her charms these days.”

Cato didn’t say anything in response, but he knew it was true. He’d begun a regular flirtation with the girl from 1, effectively cock-blocking Marvel, who was none too happy with him about it. But lately, he’d started to realize just how boring she was. All she wanted to talk about when the group ate lunch together, other than the games, was clothing and makeup and the other girls at the Academy in 1 and how ugly they all were, and Serena wasn’t much better. Sometimes, when the two of them really got going, he wanted to stab his eardrums with his fork. But he didn’t. Because how could he listen to Finch if he ruptured them?

But as much as he loved his talks with Finch, sometimes, when he lay in bed at night, a gnawing feeling took hold of his insides. He couldn’t quite place it, he couldn’t articulate it. But it was as if something was awry with his life. As if everything he’d ever known was somehow wrong. Sometimes his old thoughts--the things he’d believed before he’d met her--rubbed up unpleasantly against the new growth taking root in his mind.

On one such night, he decided to distract himself from his cognitive dissonance by planning out his life after he won.

He would live in his mansion in Victor’s Village and he’d eat all of the foods they never let him have at the Academy or the Training Center, because he wouldn’t have to worry about keeping in peak physical condition anymore. He’d stuff his face with ice cream and cakes and cookies, and he’d drink scotch just like Brutus did and he would be allowed to have a cell phone, and he’d be rich, so he’d see if they’d let him buy one for Finch and then he could call her every night and they could continue their discussions on history and philosophy and she could tell him more stories.

Or maybe, since they’d let him have anyone he wanted come visit him, he’d make sure she got papers so she could take the train out to see him, and if they wouldn’t let him do that, he’d just go see her in 5.

And then all of a sudden it hit him that if he won, that meant that she would be dead.

He barely made it to the toilet before he lost his dinner.

He never again forgot that his life meant her death.

xxxxxxxxxx

“You got any siblings?” she asked the next day.

“No. Not that I know of at least.”

“What do you mean not that you know of?”

“I’m an orphan. I don’t know who my parents are.”

“They died?”

“I dunno. I don’t know who they are. I’m just told they found me on the doorstep of the children’s home when I was a baby. That’s where they take those of us whose parents die or have to give them up. Or who don’t seem to have parents to begin with. Like me.”

“I know what a children’s home is. We have one in 5.” Finch shivered. She’d almost had to go there after her mom died. “So when did you go to the Academy?”

“When I was 6. They came into the home one day and they tested me. Took samples of my blood and my hair for genetic testing. And they came back two days later and told the lady who ran it that I was going to the Academy. And that was that. Do you have any siblings?”

“Yeah. Two little brothers. Hyde’s 11 and Gavin’s 9.”

“They’re a lot younger than you.”

“Yeah. I was an accident. Well, they called me a pleasant surprise.” Finch smiled. “But they were only 17 when they conceived me. So they got married right away and then they waited a while to have Hyde.”

“What does your dad do?”

“He was a powerline worker.”

“Was? Is he dead too?!”

“No, no. Paralyzed from the waist down. Fell at work one day about six years ago. He’s in a wheelchair.”

“Wait, so who’s supported you guys?”

“I have,” Finch said quietly.

“Wh...how?”

“My mom taught me about computers. So on the days I don’t have school I work for the District. Troubleshooting programming issues.”

“You can’t make much doing that, can you? Not enough to feed four people at least.”

“No,” she admitted. “So I...supplemented by….borrowing extra food. You know. Stuff nobody would miss.”

“You stole.”

“...yeah.”

“You could have been executed for that.”

“Better that than starve to death.”

“I guess….So you steal and you hack into the government database. And I’m assuming you don’t have a computer at home. So you hacked into government computers, right? While you were supposed to be working?”

“God when you say it like that you make me sound like a bad person.”

“Wasn’t there other stuff you could have done to make money?”

“I sold off everything we didn’t need. Old shoes and clothes and most of our furniture. Pawned it. But people didn’t want some stuff. Like my mom’s books.” She remembered the day that Garrett Cooper had tossed her book into the trash and she shook her head. “They were so mean at school about it too. Because I was poor and I was a nerd and I look funny. They called me Foxy, you know, sarcastically.” She glanced at Cato, who was looking a little guilty. She didn’t understand why she was telling him this, but it felt good to vent to someone, so she decided to forge ahead. “And I couldn’t take too much food, couldn’t let anyone know it was missing, couldn't let my dad suspect I'd resorted to looting. And Hyde and Gavin needed the food more than I did. Some days I skipped breakfast and only took one roll with me for lunch. And those assholes. They’d steal my food. Stuff it right in their mouths in front of me. And they had all the food they could eat. They had money. They _bought_ their lunch at school. I could never afford to do that. I had to wait until everyone left and then sneak back in and take it.”

She stopped talking and Cato didn’t say anything for a bit.

“Finch...how are they eating now? Your family?”

She felt tears prick her eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.” And then she couldn’t hold it in anymore and the tears escaped from her eyes and flowed down her cheeks.

And Cato stood up and left her sitting there all alone.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Brutus.”

Brutus looked up from his scotch to find Cato standing in the doorway. “Yeah.”

“I gotta talk to you about something.”

xxxxxxxxxx

David Crossley did not understand why a man in a heavy canvas apron showed up on his doorstep bearing a large crate of food for him.

He didn't understand why the man had been told by his boss that he was to stop by every week with another crate.

But he understood that two gallons of milk, two dozen hard-boiled eggs, ten cans of vegetables, one jar of peanut butter, two loaves of bread, a pound of cheese, a bag of apples, twelve cups of oats, a bag of rice and two whole rotisserie chickens would feed him and his sons for seven days.

And so David Crossley didn't ask any questions. He simply cried with relief.

xxxxxxxxxx

Finch wasn’t mad that Cato had abandoned her as she cried on the mat. She figured he wasn’t comfortable with emotions.

So she tried to act like everything was normal when they met up again the next night. Except she didn’t feel like talking.

“I’m sick of my own voice,” she said. “And don’t you get bored with listening to me blabber on and on and on?”

“Nah. The stuff you tell me is interesting.”

“Ok, but you talk tonight. You tell me something.”

“I don’t have anything to talk about. I don’t know anything like you do.”

“Well tell me about life at the Academy.”

So he told her about how he lifted weights and he ran and practiced with swords and spears and wrestled and kickboxed. And how the food was boring because they’d only let him eat stuff that was good for him, like chicken and sweet potatoes and spinach and eggs. And how he really just wanted to try cake and waffles with syrup and pasta with cheese but they said he had to wait until he won the games.

Finch laughed at the longing in his voice. “Soon enough,” she laughed. “You made it this many years. You can wait a couple more months. And if it makes you feel better, I never had that stuff either. Until now. They let me have it here.”

He opened his mouth indignantly, clearly jealous, and she spoke up before things could turn ugly. “What else did they teach you?”

“Well, how to build fires, how to build shelter, how to find water in all kinds of environments.”

“No, no that’s not what I meant. Like history and reading and math and all that.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “I mean they taught us about Panem. But none of the stuff you tell me. And I didn’t really read all that much. I didn’t like to. I only spent a few hours a week on that kind of stuff. And I stopped learning math at 12.”

“12?! So no algebra? No geometry?”

“No.” He looked uncomfortable.

“And you don’t like to read? But you love to learn. I don’t understand.”

“Look I just don’t like to read ok?

“Cato.”

“It’s not important. It doesn’t matter.”

“Cato.”

“Look I’m stupid ok!” he blew up. “I was the stupidest one in my class. They gave up on me with math. They stopped trying to teach it to me. They just had me focus on all the stuff for my games. And I got better at reading, but I still had a hard time focusing on the sentences sometimes. And I mix shit up. You know, I write numbers and letters backwards.”

“Backwards?”

“Yeah. Like d instead of b. 13 instead of 31. God why are we talking about this? It doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Ok, ok,” Finch tried to soothe him, but she edged back a few steps. She felt nervous. She’d seen him in his bullying moods, but this was different. This had something hotter and more volatile behind it.

“Christ Finch I’m not gonna fucking hit you. What do you take me for?”

“A career,” she said, her voice shaking. “A victor. Cato forget about all that stuff. You’re right. It doesn’t matter. You’re gonna be a victor. You’re gonna be rich and famous and…”

He barked out a laugh and dropped his head. “A gladiator. Here for their entertainment. Bread and circus, bread and circus. Give them their goddamned bread and circus.” He raised his head and looked at her. “We’re animals, you and I. We’re the animals they keep in cages.” He gestured to the walls around them. “And they bring us out on leashes and parade us around the ring. And I was dumb enough to buy into it. To be grateful for it! To be proud of it! To _volunteer_ for it! That's like spitting in the faces of all of you who didn't choose this! Look at me!” he was wailing now, his whole body shaking. “I’m an idiot! I’m spitting in your face! Why do you even bother with me?! How can you stand me?!”

“Cato--”

“We’re animals!” he cried bitterly. “But you," and his voice softened. "You’re different. You’re a fox. You’re wild and you're independent and you're clever and you're beautiful. And that won’t change even though they’ve caught you. You’ll still be clever, you’ll still be beautiful. Right up until you die. And I thought I was a lion," he said with disgust. "But I’m just a fucking lapdog."

Finch couldn’t handle it anymore, and without thinking she covered the distance between them and threw her arms around his waist. He hitched his breath sharply, and froze, his body still shaking. And then he exhaled heavily and his arms locked around her. He held her to him with such ferocity that it took her breath away. “Shh, shh, it’s ok, it’s ok,” she whispered, rubbing circles over his back. “It’s ok.”

“No,” he whispered back. “It’s not.” And he pried himself free from her and turned on his heel and left.

xxxxxxxxxx

She couldn’t sleep that night. Had he called her _beautiful_? Surely he hadn’t meant it like _that_.

After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, she gave up and turned the light on, wishing she had something to read, when her eyes fell across the pad of paper and pencil that Brutus had used to plan out her training schedule.  

She padded out of bed and retrieved the items and then she sat down and she drew Cato a map of as much of the world as she could remember.

xxxxxxxxxx

When she handed it to him the next night he pored over it in fascination for several minutes in silence. “Gimme that,” he finally said, gesturing toward her pencil. She handed it to him and then he started to write down all of the stories and historical figures and events they’d discussed, placing them in their correct geographical locations. He didn’t know how to spell most of the names, and after about the fourth time he had to ask her for help, she noticed that his cheeks were beginning to turn red.

“I’m not very good at spelling,” he said sheepishly.

“You’ve never seen most of these words, like Beowulf, on paper. You’ve only heard them from my mouth. I wouldn’t know how to spell them either if I hadn’t read about them.”

He looked relieved and nodded.

“You’re not stupid Cato. It’s not like I had to point out which country was which on the map. You read it all for yourself. And you remember where every single thing I’ve told you about happened. You have a really good memory. I think you might actually be smart.”

“You’re just saying that,” he muttered, but he looked pleased, and the smallest of smiles had begun to form on his face.

When he was done, he folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Don’t let anyone find that,” she said. “They’ll kill you if they do. You’re not supposed to know any of it.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I know you know. I just worry. You’re so close to getting your pasta with cheese. I’d hate for something as silly as that to ruin it for you.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Finch’s nose, though long, was thin and delicate, and the tip of it turned upwards. Just a smidge. Cato could really only tell when he looked at her in profile. It was especially lovely when she was regarding him with skepticism, because then she would wrinkle it and it made him want to laugh. _Kiss me_ it said to him. _Kiss me_.

xxxxxxxxxx

For the most part Finch’s travels through the Training Center’s ventilation systems didn’t yield too much new information. She’d been hoping to be lucky enough to overhear the gamemakers discussing the twist, but it never happened.

One day, however, as she peeked down through the grate covering the vent in the ceiling of the board room, she saw them, gathered around a table and looking over a holographic map of the finalized arena.

She could hardly believe her good fortune, and she immediately set to work memorizing as much of it as she could. It was a forest, with a lake right next to the Cornucopia. But the lake was too exposed, too obvious. The lake was the territory of the Careers. So she focused on locating the streams and creeks, the smaller sources of water.

And she took comfort in the fact that, even though she would die soon, it would not be from dehydration.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato’s chest was like a brick wall warmed by the sun. Solid and broad and begging Finch to splay her hands across its expanse. Begging her to rest her cheek on the left side of it where she could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong and comforting.

xxxxxxxxxx

She couldn’t believe she’d not thought to tell him about ancient Greece until now. She spent two whole nights on the gods and the goddesses and the myths and the city states.

“I’m a Spartan,” he said when she was done. “A warrior. And you’re Athenian. A scholar. They should have named you Athena.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Finch’s skin reminded Cato of milk. Flawless and rich and creamy. Except for the light dusting of freckles on her nose and her cheeks.

Sometimes he tried to count them, the way he used to try to count the stars as he gazed up at the night sky in 2, but she never kept still long enough for him to get past 20.

He’d strangle a sound of frustration, and one time she noticed it as he caught it in the back of his throat, and looked at him questioningly.

But he just shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. He could hardly tell her to lie down on the mat so he could settle overtop of her and take her face between his two hands, turning it this way and that as he memorized the coordinates of each and every faint nutmeg-colored dot.

xxxxxxxxxx

They got on the topic of the Civil War, which led, of course, to slavery and the KKK and the Civil Rights Movement and Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X.

Cato was not able to grasp the concept of racism very well.

“It makes no sense,” he said to Finch. “It’s like deciding that just because someone has blue eyes or brown hair or is short that they should be treated differently. There’s no logic behind it.”

Finch shrugged. “I don’t really get it either. But nevertheless, that’s what happened.” And then she told him about what the Nazis did to the Jews, and about World War II.

And on another night she told him about gay rights in America and how hard people who weren’t heterosexual had had to fight just to be allowed to get married to someone of the same sex.

He let out a snort when she said that some people had thought that sexuality was a choice and that those who weren’t straight could be “rehabilitated.” “That’s stupid. Everyone knows it’s genetic.”

“Apparently, they hadn’t made those advances in science yet.”

“Well anyway, I hate broccoli, right? That’s like telling me I’m choosing to not like broccoli and making me eat it. Sure, I can chew and swallow, but it’s not going to feel good. I still won’t like broccoli at the end of the day. And why did they care anyway? Those people? About who someone else wanted to marry?”

And that started days’ worth of talk about world religions, which they’d already discussed in brief during many of their other history lessons.

The gnawing feeling ate at Cato’s insides every night now. And a voice whispered in the back of his mind that something wasn’t right about the relationship between the Capitolites and the citizens of the districts. About the way the districts were pitted against one another. About the way they were treated differently and the way they were controlled.

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Never in a million years had Finch thought she would like the smell of metal on a man. But she did. There was something faintly metallic in the scent of Cato’s skin and his clothing and his hair and his sweat--even his breath for chrissakes.

It was the smell of his sword and his spear and the blood that he would soon spill, and so she should have associated it with death.

But it was also the smell of _his_ blood. Sometimes her forehead brushed against the base of his throat as they wrestled and she could feel it there, pulsing warmly just beneath the surface. She would breathe in the smell of iron and the smell of his strength, and so she associated it with life.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sometimes she was amazed at how quickly he could put things together. Like when he figured out that Rosseau’s philosophies must have played a role in the French Revolution. And that France’s decision to help America out during the Revolutionary War also probably helped contribute. “Seems hypocritical on Louis XVI’s part,” he said. “I mean, he wanted to retain control over his own people, but he was helping the colonies rebel against George III? Didn’t it occur to him what kind of message that would send to his own people?”

She’d made none of these connections for him. He’d reached into the closet of his mind and pulled out details that she’d thought of as so insignificant she’d been sure she’d been boring him to death, but apparently he’d been absorbing them like a sponge. He was beginning to remind her of a walking encyclopedia, but a pleasantly humble one, who didn’t even realize how much he knew.

When she talked about World War I, he wondered how two people who were related to one another so closely could go to war against each other. “What are you talking about?” she asked him. She’d merely told him that Germany and Austria had gone to war against England and France and the United States.

“Queen Victoria. Wilhelm was her grandson. And George V. They were cousins.”

“Huh?” Her head was starting to spin. So he pulled out a pencil and turned over his map and he drew her a sort of abbreviated family tree, with Victoria at the top, although the only names he knew to put at the branches were those of her two eldest children and their eldests in turn. “You said she was the grandmother of Europe and all her kids married into the royalty of all these other countries, like Germany. Obviously this is not right at all, cuz I don’t know the names of her other kids,” he said as he drew a bunch of other lines off of the bottom of Victoria’s name. “But these two. They were first cousins,” and he tapped the pencil on Wilhelm’s and George’s names.

She hated to admit it, but she was actually jealous. She may be the more educated of the two, but he might be _smarter_. She had known, of course, that Wilhelm had gone to war against George, but it hadn’t actually hit her that they’d been related until Cato pointed it out.

But his brain had already moved on. “Well, I guess it’s not so surprising that relatives went to war against each other. Look at Henry II and his sons,” he said, and then his tongue was racing off again, leaving Finch’s mind feeling as if it had been left in the dust.

xxxxxxxxxx

When Finch laughed, her eyes narrowed so much that you could barely see her amber irises. But oh how they glowed. They looked almost translucent, and Cato swore he could see little flecks of gold drifting sluggishly through them, as if caught in honey, and pushing off slowly against the thin chocolate brown ring that kept all of that delicious nectar contained.

Sometimes he fell into her eyes and got lost in them, opened his lungs and felt amber-colored syrup ooze down their insides and he couldn’t breathe.

 _What a lovely way to drown_ he thought.

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“The arena is a forest this year,” she said out of nowhere.

He snapped his eyes to hers in shock. “How do you know?”

“The vents. I can fit in them. I can crawl through the whole training center. I heard the gamemakers talking about it.”

“Finch, you should be careful!” he hissed. “They’ll kill you if they catch you.”

“I’m d--”

“I know, I know, you’re dead anyway. But maybe the wouldn’t kill you. Maybe they’d...maybe they’d cut your tongue out like Titus’s daughter and make you an Avox.” He was starting to panic. He was from 2. He knew what Peacekeepers sometimes did to prisoners and Avoxes. “They could beat you or starve you or _rape_ you.”

He grasped her shoulders and shook her, hard. “DO NOT go in those vents again. Do you understand me?” His voice was harsh and angry, and her eyes grew wide and filled with tears at his tone and his sudden aggression.

He sighed and forced himself to soften his voice and his grip on her body. “What else did you hear?” he asked.

Finch swallowed and blinked the tears from her eyes. “Girl on Fire is an archer. She hunts. You can’t let her get her hands on a bow. And her district partner is stronger than he looks. Wrestled in school. The boy from 3 can build explosives from random things. But otherwise, I didn’t see anything that made me think anyone else is a threat. Except the boy from 11. He’s a serious contender. But you already knew that.”

Cato nodded at her. “You hear anything about the twist?”

“No, nothing. I was gonna go in again tomorrow...see if I could learn anything about it.”

He dropped his head and squeezed her shoulders, but there was no anger in it this time. “No!” It sounded like a plea, his voice. “Please. Promise me. Promise me you won’t go back in there.”

Coming from Cato, this was worse than the yelling and the demands. It was so pitiful that Finch felt she had no other choice but to agree. “Ok,” she said. “I won’t.”

He sighed with relief and looked up at her, held her eyes captive with his. “Promise.”

“I promise.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato’s lips were mostly to be found forming a tight, thin, stern-looking line. They practically disappeared when he laughed or smiled, and then he was all teeth.

And while Finch didn’t mind looking at his lips or his teeth, if she was honest with herself, she would prefer to _not_ be able to see them. Because she would prefer his lips to melt into hers and then open to invite her tongue into his mouth. She would prefer that his teeth sink lightly into the place where her neck met up with her shoulder.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Is that your token?” Cato asked, pointing to Finch’s right hand.

She looked down at the thin copper band. “Yeah. It was my mother’s wedding ring. What’s yours?”

“I don’t have one,” he said.

He sounded stoic, but Finch’s heart ached for him.

xxxxxxxxxx

Finch’s cheekbones were high and sharp, positioned at the very widest part of her face. From there, everything tapered down gradually but steadily, until the right and left sides met up at what some might see as a chin that was just a little too pointed.

But Cato wanted to take his two index fingers, one to either side of her face, and trace her bone structure. He’d start just under her eyes, he decided, and run his fingers back along each cheekbone until he reached her temples, and then he’d make his way down the sides of her face and he’d map her jawline, and finally, once his fingers met one another at the tip of her chin, he would draw back regretfully.

xxxxxxxxxx

“I’m tired of talking. I need a break. Tell me something. Tell me about 2. What’s the prairie like?”

So he talked to her about the smell of the grass and the way the thunderstorms rolled in and about the prairie dogs popping up out of the ground. About the color of the sky at sunrise and sunset. How the sunlight bounced off of the snow in the winter and how the wind howled and drove it into drifts. About the bullfrogs singing at night in the summer while the fireflies danced above their heads.

And when he looked over at her, her eyes were shining. “I wish I could see it someday,” she whispered.

He wished she could too. So badly that it made his throat close up and his chest hurt.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato’s arms were the loveliest restraints Finch could ever imagine. She was quick and she was slippery and she was nimble but sometimes, just sometimes, she let herself be caught, let herself be tamed, let herself be held a little longer than necessary so she could revel in the feel of those warm arms, hard as rock, hard as steel.

And she should have been terrified of them, she knew. She should have labeled them as _dangerous_. Every ounce of intellect chided her that it should be so. But every cell of her muscle and her blood and her bone whispered to her _safe, here you are safe_.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato was heading out the door of his apartment so he could go see Finch for their usual meeting when he ran into Plutarch Heavensbee as he stepped off of the elevator.

“Hello Cato. I just came to see Brutus,” the gamemaker said, holding out his hand. “Where are you off to?”

Cato was about to lie and say he was going to see Marvel, but as he took his right hand out of his hoodie pocket, his folded map with Victoria’s family tree on the back of it caught in his cuff and wafted down to the ground.

He stood, frozen, as Heavensbee bent down to retrieve it.

 _Please don’t notice what’s on it_ , Cato prayed silently.

But his prayer went unanswered, and he watched in horror as the gamemaker unfolded it and studied it for a few seconds. “Who gave you this?” he asked after what seemed like an eternity.

“It’s mine,” Cato said icily. He’d be damned if he’d betray Finch.

“I didn’t realize they taught all of this at the Academy. In fact I’m fairly certain they _don’t._ ”

“Just have me arrested already. Get it over with,” Cato said through clenched teeth.

But Plutarch Heavensbee merely refolded the paper and handed it back to him. The look in his eyes was a curious one, completely devoid of malevolence. “Don’t fret my boy. Your secret’s safe with me. I suspect you and I may have more in common than I ever realized. But don’t worry about that right now. Just survive these games--although I’m assuming you’re not really a fan of them, just as I myself am not--and we’ll have lots to talk about afterward. And _you_ be more careful with _that_.” He pointed to the map, and then he stepped past Cato and into the apartment.

xxxxxxxxxx

Finch’s voice was low, and surprisingly so, for someone as small as she. But Cato wouldn’t have described it as smooth. No, it was pleasantly...fuzzy. Sometimes it scraped a bit against her throat before it rose up and out between her teeth, especially on prolonged vowels. As though she’d lost her voice days ago and hadn’t quite gotten it all back yet.

When she spoke, he had the strange sensation of being deliciously bound on all sides by the content and cadence and texture of her words, and yet somehow he found her voice to be elusive. As though it wrapped around him teasingly and then, just when he reached out to try to catch it, it slipped from his fingers and evaporated into thin air.

If he could, he would trap it inside of a velvet-lined box and he would store it in the top drawer of his nightstand in his bedroom at the Training Center. And then, every night, as he lay alone in his bed, he would take it out and set the box on his chest, and then he would lift the lid, and there would be her voice. A glowing amber lozenge, with tiny nuggets of gold swimming lazily through its depths.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Look what I snuck for you,” Finch said mischievously as she entered the sparring room. Her eyes were dancing.

In her hands she held a small plate with a piece of chocolate cake so dark it looked black. It was topped with a generous coating of fluffy white frosting. His mouth started to water.

“I’m not supposed to have that,” he whispered, but his resolve was already halfway crumbled.

“One piece of cake isn’t going to be the difference between life and death in that arena,” she coaxed.

He leaned down and inhaled the heavy dark aroma of chocolate and the rich creamy scent of vanilla frosting, and he moaned.

“What’s that shiny stuff?” he asked. There was a fine dusting of something shimmery on top of the icing, and it reminded him of sunlight glittering on fresh snow.

“It’s called finishing sugar,” she said.

“Oh my god, give me a bite.”

Finch giggled and cut off a piece with the fork and then she held it up to his mouth. He closed his lips around it and he thought he had died and gone to heaven.

“Mmmmmmmohhh my god,” he said with his mouth full.

“Good?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s better than _sex."_

“Well that’s...more than I wanted to know,” she said. “I picked the piece with the most frosting on purpose.”

“You have some now.”

“I already had a piece at dinner. This is for you.”

“ _All_ of it?”

“Every last bite.”

“Oh my god I love you,” he groaned as she stuffed another forkful into his mouth.

Finch’s heart seized up, but only for a second, because she knew he wasn’t serious. It was simply a hyperbole, an exaggeration of his gratitude.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato’s hands had taken quite a beating for someone so young. His palms were calloused, his knuckles scarred, his cuticles dry and ragged against the white half moons at the base of his nails.

Finch knew well the feel of the callouses as they caught on the skin of her arms and her wrists and even her neck. But she did not know what those scars felt like beneath her thumbs, and god did she want to know. 

If she could choose her manner of death in the arena, she thought it would be best to have her throat squeezed between those warm calloused hands until they cut off her air supply. And as her lungs struggled for oxygen, she would attempt to inhale through her nose, and so the last thing she would smell would be the metal on his palms.

xxxxxxxxxx

They were holding a heated debate over whether Cato should wear a navy blue suit or a dark grey one for his interview over dinner and it was starting to drive him insane. Paris was in favor of the blue, while Acadia, his stylist, was pimping the gray.

“What do you think Cato?” Paris asked, turning to him.

“I don’t care either way,” he said, slightly annoyed. He had been in the middle of contemplating 1984 and the idea that Big Brother is always watching and what it had to do with his life as he knew it, and at first he’d been able to ignore their inane conversation, but now they were trying to draw him into it.

“Well, listen,” said Acadia, “the gray will look better with your eyes and--”

“But the blue will look better with your hair I think,” Paris said.

“But your eyes are your best feature,” Acadia argued, leaning in towards him.

“Oh my _god_ I don’t care!” Cato yelled and they both sat back. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter. Just pick one.”

Didn’t they understand what was important in life? Chocolate cake was important and Shakespeare was important and George Orwell was important, goddammit. And girls with red hair laughing as they caught fireflies while bullfrogs sang in the background because they didn’t have to worry about how their fathers and brothers would eat.

xxxxxxxxxx

Finch’s lips, a few shades darker than her skin and tinged with pink, were small and thin and straight, but Cato was fascinated with them. They were highly defined where they met up with her skin, creating an almost imperceptible ridge all the way around them that he would have very much liked to trace with his tongue as he took each of her lips, the top and the bottom in turn, between both of his.

Her teeth were small and pearly and just slightly pointed (like a fox’s he chuckled to himself) and sometimes he imagined them taking hold of the skin just beneath his jaw, tugging and nipping and leaving little marks that she would soothe with her tiny pink tongue.

His musings on the rest of her face made him feel tender towards her, but the thought of her mouth ignited the part of him that was most carnal. The thought of her mouth never failed to turn him hard.

xxxxxxxxxx

“The bloodbath,” Cato said. “We need to talk about it.”

“Ok. What about it?”

“Don’t even bother with it. Turn and run into the trees. Immediately.”

“I know. That was my plan all along. What are you gonna do?”

He looked at her soberly. “I’m a Career,” he said, and his voice was flat. “I’m gonna do exactly what everyone expects me to do.”

Finch studied him sadly, and then she nodded in understanding.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato’s eyes were usually the color of his sword, cold and glinting and hard.

But sometimes, when she was in the middle of a story, she’d turn to look at him and find them focused on her face, the look in them soft and smoky and warm. She would almost lose her train of thought, almost lose the ability to speak.

Maybe he wouldn’t even need to wrap his hands around her throat to kill her in the arena. Maybe he could just fix his eyes on hers and she would suffocate on the smoke in them.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Tell me a fairy tale,” he said to her.

“I thought you didn’t like those.”

“I need something with a happy ending,” He closed his eyes. “Tell me Beauty and the Beast again.”

So she did, and as she talked he thought about how the only reason she’d started seeing him every night was because he’d threatened to make her pay if she didn’t. But he hoped with all of his heart that now she saw him because she wanted to.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato couldn’t see much of the skin that covered Finch’s body, and his hands had not had the privilege of discovering its texture, but through the fabric of her clothing he could feel its warmth, could feel how it stretched itself thin over her collarbone. He could feel how perfectly his palms molded over the curvature of her shoulders, as though they had been shaped specifically to suit him.

There were other things he could feel. A few places where her flesh, rather than being pulled taut over ribs and elbows and shoulder blades and hipbones, was softer and more pliable. Two small swells high on her chest. Two larger ones beneath the small of her back. The insides of her thighs.

But he kept his thoughts from lingering on those places for long, for the same reason he avoided gazing at her mouth for any length of time.

xxxxxxxxxx

“What do you hate most of all?” he asked her one day.

“The games,” she said.

“Well, ok, but if we lived lives without games and Peacekeepers and parents dying too young or being paralyzed or leaving us on doorsteps. Then what?”

“Being made fun of and mocked and picked on. Being humiliated in front of everyone,” Finch said. “What about you?” She already knew the answer, _feeling stupid_ , but she thought it was polite to ask the question anyway.

She was surprised at the words that came out of his mouth. “Being confused,” he said quietly “Not understanding my place in the world.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato’s hair was perhaps the most boyish thing about him. It was a dirty golden color and it mussed easily, sticking up in unruly tufts. It wasn’t as soft as hers, that she knew, but still. She would have liked to run her fingers through it, to tug and twist it this way and that.

She had heard the girls at school giggling about how sometimes a guy would go down on a girl and put his mouth at the juncture of her legs, and how it would feel excruciatingly wonderful.

She pictured Cato’s head down there, his hair the only part of him visible between her thighs, and she smiled at how she would reach down to grab fistfuls of it and hang on for dear life as she threw her own head back.

The thought of it made her rub her thighs together a little--just a little--and feel the dampness that had accumulated there.

xxxxxxxxxx

Brutus smiled to himself as he watched his tribute’s gaze follow the little thing from 5’s every move longingly.

He chuckled to himself as he watched the little thing from 5 caress the planes of his tribute’s face with her eyes.

But he frowned to himself when he remembered that in less than a month’s time they would be pitted against one another and that the little thing from 5 would be dead.

xxxxxxxxxx

As much as she hated Lacey Smalls, Finch had to admit she was right about one thing. She was probably gonna die a virgin. And that really wouldn’t have bothered her. She hadn’t been particularly curious about sex. Until Cato came along.

And sometimes she thought about swallowing her pride and asking him if he would grant her this one favor. But she didn’t. Because she knew he would never want someone as ugly and awkward as her.

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Cato had wanted to fuck Glimmer _so so bad_. He’d gotten inside a lot of hot girls in 2, but Glimmer...she oozed sex. She was by far the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

He’d held back because he didn’t want her to get clingy. It could make for some awkward training sessions and some uncomfortable games if they had anything other than a one-night stand. He’d promised himself that he’d fuck her the night before their interviews. Two nights before they entered the arena.

And Serena was gorgeous too. But he knew better than to stir up that kind of drama by sleeping with more than one Career. And she wasn’t a sure bet. She’d take some work he figured, and he just didn’t care enough to put in the effort.

Clove...she was like a sister. It would have just felt wrong.

So it was Glimmer he had chosen.

But now he was starting to rethink that decision.

Now he was starting to think that Finch was by far the most desirable girl he’d ever met. And he thought about telling her. But he didn’t. Because, in spite of her kind words and her insistence that he was smart, he knew she would never want someone as stupid as him.


	5. Chapter 5

"What do you think your score will be?" Finch asked Cato.

"10 or 11. I think I deserve a 12. But they'll never give anyone a 12. Hell they've never given anyone an 11. They're stingy motherfuckers. You've gotten pretty good at this, by the way," he gestured to the knife in Finch's hand. "You could get an 8. Maybe even a 9."

Finch looked at him skeptically. She wasn't half bad, but she wasn't _good_ either. Three months' worth of training had improved her aim quite a bit, but even if she was fairly accurate, she hardly ever threw with enough force to be lethal.

"You could!" he protested in response to her expression.

" _Maybe_ I could pull off a 7. And that's fine with me. I just want to lay low."

"Yeah but a high score means more sponsors."

"Oh come on. You know me. I don't need sponsors." Finch grinned. "I have other ways of meeting my needs."

Cato chuckled. "Yes you do."

"So this sponsor gala…"

"What about it?"

"What am I supposed to do at it?"

"Well most of us will talk to potential sponsors and try to sell ourselves. But since you're not interested in that you should spend your time observing the other tributes since it's the first time you will have seen them since the parade."

"No, not the first time," Finch reminded him. "The vents. Remember?"

"Well still. See if you can pick up any useful information. And maybe try to pick up at least a couple of sponsors."

Finch wrinkled her nose. "I don't really like talking to people."

"You talk to me."

"That's different."

"Still. You need to at least try. As a backup plan, and because people might get suspicious if they don't see you talking to anyone."

"Alright." She was quiet for a minute as she tossed a few more knives. "The other Careers don't know about you and me do they?" she asked when she'd emptied her holster.

"No. They just think I help Brutus with you two hours a week."

"So we shouldn't really talk then. At the gala."

"No. Probably not."

"It'll be the first night in two and a half months that we won't see each other. Well, at least like this."

"We can still meet up afterwards."

"No way, It goes til 1. And we have scoring the next day."

"Alright," he said dispassionately. But his insides felt leaden with disappointment. There were only a handful of days left until they entered the arena, and every minute with her was more precious than the last.

xxxxxxxxxx

They didn't acknowledge one another at the sponsor gala but Cato was having a hard time keeping his eyes off of Finch.

She was beautiful. They'd put her in a short, form-fitting ivory lace dress and her hair was loose and wavy. He'd never seen it down before, he realized. It surrounded her face in tongues of copper flame, and he found himself thinking that they had given the moniker of Girl on Fire to the wrong tribute.

He spent his time chatting up potential sponsors and flirting with Glimmer and joking around with Lucan and Marvel. But no matter what he was doing or who he was talking to, he knew where she was in relation to him, even if he couldn't see her.

It was while he was discussing the strategy for the bloodbath with Marvel and Glimmer that his eyes landed on Finch, about 20 feet from him and talking to the guy from 11.

Her head was thrown back and she was laughing and doing that adorable thing where she wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyelids, and Cato was immediately hit by a wave of jealousy over the fact that he wasn't the one eliciting that joy from her.

That wave began to pick up momentum as he studied Thresh. _His arms aren't any stronger than mine_ he thought. _He's not any taller than me. His shoulders aren't any broader._

But his arms weren't any weaker than Cato's either. And he wasn't any shorter. His shoulders were no narrower. The bodies of both men were equally well-suited to the task of capturing beautiful, clever little foxes and keeping them safe and warm.

Cato looked down at his hands, a few shades darker than Finch's, and thought about how much more nicely Thresh's coffee-colored skin contrasted with her own creamy paleness.

He imagined how beautiful her copper head of hair would look tucked beneath the boy from 11's chin.

He noticed how Thresh's chocolate eyes reflected the amber glow of hers far better than his own gray ones ever could.

He thought about how much warmer Thresh's smile, with its perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth and the dimples on either side of it, was than his own nasty smirk.

And then, just as Finch finished whatever she was saying, Thresh turned his head and looked right at Cato, and his face took on a look of contempt. He turned back to say something to Finch and she burst out laughing again. They were making fun of him. He knew it.

They were probably talking about how stupid he was. Thresh probably never wrote d when he meant to write b. Thresh probably didn't need to ask people to help him with his spelling. Thresh didn't mistake 13 for 31. Thresh's math teachers hadn't given up on him when he was 12.

He _hated_ Thresh.

But he hated Finch even more.

She'd never actually liked him. She'd never really wanted to spend time talking to him. She'd just been patronizing him. She probably went back to her room every night and laughed at how stupid he was, just like she was doing with 11 at this very moment.

She was a snob. That's what she was. Who thought she was so much smarter than everyone else. Who looked down on him and his whole way of life, on everything he'd ever known, everything he'd ever valued, everything he'd worked so hard for.

And to think he'd almost fallen for it, almost changed his whole way of looking at the world, when in reality she had nothing to be snobby about. She was nobody. Just an awkward, ugly little piece of trash from a lesser district.

He was disgusted with himself.

And she would pay for it.

xxxxxxxxxx

The sponsor gala was turning out to be more fun that Finch had ever thought it would be.

Well, apart from the gnawing feeling of jealousy that overtook her every time she looked over and saw Glimmer flirting with Cato.

But she'd talked a little with the girl from 3 and now she was talking to Thresh, the boy from 11. She'd been terrified when she'd glimpsed what he could do with a scythe through the vents, but it turned out that when he wasn't wielding sharp metal objects he was a pretty warm and affable guy. At the moment he was telling her about how Haymitch, from 12, would sometimes come down and get sloppy drunk with Chaff, his mentor, and how one time Haymitch fell out of his chair, and how Chaff had leaned over to try to catch him but had ended up falling out of his chair too. In the midst of it, Haymitch had reached out and grabbed the tablecloth to steady himself, and he wound up pulling it-along with all of the dirty dishes and leftover food from dinner-right down onto the two of them. They'd gotten tangled up, and Thresh had had to go over and rescue them as they rolled around on the floor, swearing and kicking and getting gravy everywhere.

"Chaff said he heard that Brutus has been helping you out," Thresh said to Finch when they'd both stopped laughing.

"Yeah. My dad saved Brutus's life a long time ago when he was in 5 on one of his Victory Tours and he got stung by tracker jackers. So I think Brutus feels like he owes my dad a favor. It's just been four hours a week. And Cato helps for two of those."

Thresh turned his head and looked over to the part of the room where Cato stood with Marvel and Glimmer. He raised one eyebrow skeptically and turned back to her. "Cato? That sociopathic meathead?"

Finch laughed at the predictability of his reaction. No one from outlying districts ever had anything kind to say about the Careers. "He's not that bad, really. He can be nice when he wants. And he's smart. _Really_ smart."

xxxxxxxxxx

After weeks, months really, of near isolation, it felt strange to be around so many people at once for the second time in less than 24 hours. The other tributes, except for the Careers and Thresh, who hadn't arrived yet, seemed glad to have the chance to socialize as they sat in the holding room, waiting to be summoned to their scoring sessions, but Finch just sat by herself in the corner. She would have liked to talk more to Brigita, from 3, who she'd met the night before, but she was busy discussing something with her district partner.

The Careers, all six of them, entered at the same time, laughing boisterously and jostling one another. Lucan from 4 strolled over to Aaron from 3 and sneered down at him. "You're in my seat," he said menacingly. It was ridiculous. There were exactly twenty-four chairs in the room, and there was no good reason why the Career would want that exact spot. But the poor kid looked like he was gonna piss himself. He immediately scrambled up and out of the chair.

Not to be outdone, Marvel surveyed the room before choosing Tate as his victim. He didn't even have to say anything. He just towered over him and Tate shot out of the way, ceding his place with no argument.

Finch rolled her eyes. Surely Cato wouldn't get caught up in all of this douchebaggery. And why was he standing by her chair all of a sudden? They were supposed to pretty much ignore each other in public.

"Hey you. Foxface." He hadn't called her that since the day he chopped her hair off. Why was he doing it now? And why did he sound like that? Like he was making fun of her. "You're in my seat."

When she got over the shock of it, Finch clenched her jaw and stared straight ahead, refusing to reply or look at him.

So he bent down, his hands on his knees, and put his face right next to hers. "I _said_ you're in my seat."

She could _not_ believe he was doing this, and she would not surrender by giving up her seat or even by acknowledging his presence.

But the entire room was staring at them and she knew he wouldn't put up with looking weak, with letting some tribute from a non-Career district win a battle of wills.

She still wasn't prepared to find herself hauled up by her hair and literally _dragged_ across the floor and deposited like a piece of trash at the foot of an empty chair.

Rage was coursing through her blood, but she felt powerless. She was no match for him physically, and if she got lippy she knew the only thing that would come of it would be even more humiliation, and so she picked herself up to settle in the empty chair and she smoothed her hair back into place, her face burning.

"Oh my god you're right!" Glimmer was giggling. " _That's_ why she's so funny-looking. I couldn't figure it out. But she looks _just_ like a fox. Doesn't she?" She turned to Serena, who was also snickering.

Even the Girl on Fire was smiling faintly at the accuracy of the nickname. Peeta, her district partner, was eyeing her sympathetically. He, at least, seemed to have a soul.

Finch felt herself tearing up but she refused to let them see her cry. So she pulled her feet up onto the chair and she hugged her knees to her chest and she buried her face in them as she attempted to regain control over herself.

He was just like Garrett Cooper, he was just like all the other boys who made fun of her at school. Why had she been stupid enough to think he was any different? To think that a few months of stories and history lectures would undo more than a decade's worth of conditioning?

And as she sat and waited to be called in to see the gamemakers, one bitter tear escaped from each eye.

She was so distracted by her pain and anger and humiliation that she didn't even hit a third of the targets she aimed for in her session, and so she only scored a 5.

xxxxxxxxxx

The air between the two of them was dangerously volatile the next morning.

"So how long did you sit up there in your training room last night before you figured out I wasn't coming?" Cato asked with a smirk as they waited for Brutus to arrive.

"I didn't," Finch said flatly. "I didn't go in there at all."

"Awww why not? Did I hurt your feelings yesterday? You didn't think we were friends did you? You didn't think…you didn't think you were _special_? That you weren't like every other weak insignificant tribute from the scum districts who'll be slaughtered in the bloodbath?"

It hit too close to home and Finch lost her cool entirely. "You wanna know why I didn't go in there? Huh? I didn't go in there because I'd rather starve to death in that arena than waste one more second with you. I'd rather die of gangrene. I'd rather have mutt birds peck at my intestines for hours on end. Because every second I spend with you makes me feel like I'm getting dumber and dumber. I can feel my brain cells dying when I'm with you. Sometimes when I'm trying to have a conversation with you you sound so stupid that I want to stab my eardrums out. That's why I didn't wait for you last night."

He stared at her in shock, and she saw a flash of pain in the depths of his gray eyes, but only for a second, because it was immediately replaced by a pure, cold, tightly controlled rage.

"You're fucking dead," he growled. "You're the first one I kill."

"At least I'll die smart. And you'll probably win. And good for you. But at the end of it you'll still be dumb as fuck."

"And you'll still be ugly as fuck."

"Better dead and ugly than alive and stupid."

"Alright, ready to go kids?" Brutus called cheerily as he strolled through the doorway.

They were ready to go alright. Taunts were thrown and fists flew and hair was yanked and Brutus finally yelled "enough you two!" and gave up on them. "We're obviously done with this. With you two working together. It's for the best anyway since the games are in a couple of days." But there was something sad in the sound of his voice.

"Good. I'm sick of wasting my time on this bitch anyway," Cato spat and stalked out of the room.

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"What the hell _happened_?" Brutus asked Cato later that morning.

"She called me stupid."

"And what did you do to make her call you that?"

Cato glared at his mentor. "Nothing."

"Oh yes you did. You had to have, otherwise she wouldn't have said something like that to you."

So Cato sighed and told him what he'd done in the holding room before his scoring session.

"Why did you do that?' Brutus asked.

But Cato just sat there, silent and stubborn. He was not about to admit to Brutus that he'd been right. That he'd been foolish enough to develop _feelings_ for Finch and that she'd reciprocated by laughing with 11 at the sponsor gala about how stupid he was.

After a little bit Brutus grew tired of waiting for an answer and gave up with a sigh. "She may have called you stupid this morning but she doesn't think that. She's told me more than once how smart she thinks you are."

Cato looked up in surprise. "She did?"

"Yeah."

"Then why did she say that I was stupid?"

"Because hurt people hurt people."

"What?"

"Hurt people hurt people. You hurt her so she hurt you. And it sounds like you both know exactly where to hit the other one to do the most damage."

xxxxxxxxxx

The interviews were the next evening, and as he made his way down to the lobby to meet up with Brutus so they could leave for the studio, he found himself in the elevator with the tributes from 11. He couldn't help but smile down at the little girl, who looked like a fairy dressed in some kind of gold fouffy dress with shimmering wings on her back and a crown of gilded leaves on her dark curls. She looked up at him with terrified eyes, and backed herself into her district partner, who laid a hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

It saddened Cato and his smile faded. When he looked up, Thresh was studying him curiously.

"What?" he snapped, his melancholy dissipating almost immediately.

"Is it true what 5 said? You been helping her a couple hours a week?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe she's right. Maybe you're not as bad as everyone thinks."

Cato snorted. "Is that what she said? What else did she say?"

"Nothing really." Thresh shrugged. "Just that you can be nice when you want to and that you're really smart."

Cato blinked in surprise. "When did she say that?"

"At the sponsor gala."

"I didn't realize you two were so friendly," Cato said, trying to keep his voice nonchalant.

But Thresh threw a skeptical face at him. "I know you saw us talking. I looked right at you while we were talking about you. Wait…are you _jealous?_ " Cato glared at him murderously, but Thresh just laughed. "Holy shit, you _are_!

"I'm gonna fucking kill you," Cato muttered.

Thresh stopped laughing abruptly and gave him a sober look. "I don't doubt that you will," he said softly, and there wasn't an ounce of sarcasm in his voice.

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Cato had never been so sorry in his life. She hadn't been making fun of him at all that night. She'd been defending him. And look what it had gotten her.

And he'd thought she was beautiful at the sponsor gala but tonight, as they lined up backstage in preparation for their interviews, she was breathtaking. She wore a dark green dress that intensified the colors of her skin, her hair and her eyes. They'd left her hair down again, and it spilled across her shoulders and collarbones.

He tried as hard as he could without being obvious to catch her attention so he could make her understand how sorry he was with his eyes. To beg her to forgive him and allow him to see her one more time alone. But she wouldn't even look at him. And he had no reason to go over and speak to her, no reason to go anywhere near her.

Cato knew all about pain. He'd led a rough life at the Academy. He'd had split lips and black eyes and busted noses. Bruised kidneys and concussions and so many cuts that he'd lost count long ago. He'd had dislocated shoulders and broken fingers and once he'd even fractured his collarbone.

But he'd never known, until tonight, what it felt like to be stabbed in the chest.

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When they called him out on stage he shook his shoulders back and he slipped into the brutal, bloody persona they all expected to see tonight.

He shook Caesar's hand and he smirked at the camera and he made himself at ease as he sat in the white leather chair, answering the host's questions with a cold cockiness. "I'm prepared, I'm vicious, I'm ready to go," he said, and the crowd roared their approval.

"Now tell us, Cato. Is there a special girl back home?"

Cato laughed. "There are lots of girls back home."

"Oh come on now. But is there a special one?"

_Not at home._

"They're all special. At least for the night." The men guffawed and the women screamed like teenage girls.

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Finch rolled her eyes as she listened to him. He sounded so vain, so cocky, so shallow and self-absorbed. All traces of the boy she had thought she had come to know were gone. It was like they weren't even the same person. _Like Jekyll and Hyde_ , she thought.

When it was her turn, she was terrified that she would trip across the stage just like she had at her reaping, but she made it safely to her seat.

She was boring and forgettable and her nerves were obvious to all of Panem, but she did her best to pretend that she and Caesar were the only two people in the room, as Rush had advised her to do, and for the most part it worked. In any case, she made it through the three minutes without looking like an idiot.

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Cato sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, and for the first time his consciousness acknowledged what his heart had understood for weeks. And he knew. He knew.

He threw his head back and he laughed mirthlessly.

_Twelve years. Twelve fucking years._

_Three months. Three fucking months._

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"Now, where's your token?" Acadia asked him as soon as she'd finished helping him into his gear for the arena after breakfast. He was scheduled to leave the apartment and board the hovercraft in ten minutes.

"I don't have one," he said as he studied his ensemble. Hiking boots and cargo pants and a t shirt and a windbreaker. She was right about the arena being a forest then.

"But you have to have one!" Acadia exclaimed. "Something to remind you of what you love most. Something to help you focus on why you're there!"

"Acadia," Brutus said, shaking his head at the stylist. "Let it go."

But her words had given Cato an epiphany. "I'll be right back," he said.

He walked across the hall and into his weapons room and he peeked behind the knife stand. And there it was. The lock of red hair he'd tossed back there so carelessly three months ago. He picked it up and he blew off the dust and he smoothed it with his fingers. And then he coiled it around itself and slipped it into his pocket-the one on the inside of his jacket that nestled against his chest.

xxxxxxxxxx

"I'll see you in a week or so?" Brutus said to him as he stood waiting to board the hovercraft.

"Brutus."

"I'll have a carton of ice cream and an entire cake waiting for you and you can stuff your face until you vomit from all the sugar."

"Brutus."

"And your mansion. You're gonna live in the one two doors down from me."

"Brutus."

"Ahhh fuck, I know, son. I know." He closed his eyes and shook his head. " _Twelve_ years. Twelve. fucking. years."

"I know. I thought the exact same thing. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I get it." When Brutus opened his eyes they were red. "You're the closest thing I ever had to a son."

"And you're the closest thing I ever had to a father."

"It's time Mr. Hadley," said the Peacekeeper

"Goodbye Brutus." And Cato held out his hand.

But Brutus, unable to speak, put his arms around Cato's shoulders and gave him one brief, fierce hug.

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Finch was exhausted. She'd hardly been able to sleep, and had spent the wee hours of the morning alternating between crying over the fact that she would never see her father or her brothers again, and shaking in fear as she wondered how and when she would meet her end in the arena.

By the time the sun rose she had come to terms with her fate, and she was silent and stoic as Fascinia helped her dress.

Her fear and her sorrow had given way to a dull regret that left everything-colors, lights, sounds, and even her own soul-feeling strangely washed out. Regret over how lonely and insignificant her life had been.

Regret over how lonely and insignificant her death would be.

xxxxxxxxxx

She sat across from Cato and down two seats to the right on the hovercraft and he leaned forward and tried again to will her to look at him, but whether she was still too hurt and angry with him or just too terrified to even remember that he existed, he couldn't tell.

He only knew that he had taken it for granted the last time she'd looked him in the eye.


	6. Chapter 6

Brutus sat in the District 2 mentoring room with Enobaria and Lyme and the others and he forced himself to conceal his grief over the loss of the boy he had practically raised for the past twelve years.

"You'll want to settle in," Paris said. "The twist will be announced any minute now."

Not 30 seconds later, Caesar put his hand to his earpiece, as though listening to some directive from one of the producers, and footage of the hovercraft leaving the Training Center appeared on the screen behind him and Claudius Templesmith.

"And we are told that the hovercraft has just lifted off, Claudius," Caesar announced.

"And you know what that means," Claudius said. "It's time for us to reveal the Third Quarter Quell twist. We know you've all been waiting on the edge of your seats to find out what it is, so ladies and gentlemen, here you are. We are excited to announce that for the first time ever, it will be possible for two tributes to win the games. The final male tribute and the final female tribute left standing will both be declared Victors, but if-and only if-they make it to exactly 12:00 noon on the tenth day of the games. The tributes will not be informed of the twist until that day and time, at which point the announcement will be made in the arena."

"Yes!" Lyme crowed as Enobaria reached over and grabbed Brutus's shoulder excitedly. "We'll have two Victors from 2 this year!"

"Now where I think this could get interesting, Claudius," Caesar said, "is if there's more than one tribute of each sex left at the ten day mark. I think we'll be in for a treat if that happens, because then we'll really get to watch the drama unfold. Who will ally with whom? Who will turn on whom?"

"And, of course, Caesar," said Claudius, "there's always the possibility that we won't even make it to the ten-day mark. If all but one of the tributes are killed before then, or if the remaining tributes are all of the same sex, then the twist will be off and we'll have only one Victor as usual. That's the beauty of this year's twist; it's adds a whole new level of suspense to the games."

Brutus sat perfectly still, turning what he'd just heard over and over in his head, as hope started to grow in his chest.

"Brutus! You're just sitting there! Aren't you excited?" Enobaria demanded.

 _They could both come home. They could both come home. I could get my son back. David Crossley could get his daughter back_.

He turned to Enobaria, a grin spreading across his face. "I'm ecstatic."

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Finch had thought maybe her fear would return once the hovercraft lifted off, or once she was deposited into her tube. But everything just continued to grow duller and duller and she grew more and more apathetic. She stared at the floor of the hovercraft and her mind went blank, and she entered her tube like a zombie.

The fear hit her like a tidal wave, though, as soon as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight of the arena and fell upon the pile of sharp, shiny weapons just inside the mouth of the Cornucopia.

As the countdown began, she looked around wildly, trying to remember the holographic map, trying to remember her plan.

And then her gaze stopped on Cato. He was staring her down, his eyes more intense than she'd ever seen them, and she shook with terror as she remembered his threat that she'd be the first one he'd kill.

But then, eyes still locked on hers, he jerked his head to his left. To the west. Where there was a small stream and a cave about two miles from the Cornucopia. Where she had told him before things had turned sour between them that she intended to set up her home base.

But for all of her careful and clever planning, she'd forgotten to take into account the wild card of her pedestal placement. And now she found herself on the eastern side of the ring of tributes. She would have to either run straight through the bloodbath or around the perimeter of half of the circle to get to it, leaving herself exposed to Clove's knives and Marvel's spears for far longer than she was comfortable with.

And more importantly, she had been foolish enough to share her plan with Cato. She'd be a sitting duck; he'd know right where to go to find her. That jerk of his head...it was clearly a trick.

And so when the gong went off, she turned to her right and she fled to the northeast, where she knew there was another, smaller stream, and a series of tiny, underground caves. And although she had also shared this information with Cato, she had not gone into nearly as much detail regarding the location of the caves, because she'd been so focused on her plan to head west.

She flew as fast as her little feet could take her, her panic spurring her forward, like a strong gust of wind at her back.

When she reached the cover of the treeline, she turned to take a quick survey of the bloodbath.

It was utter chaos, made up of animalistic screams and crimson blood and the sound of metal striking metal and the glare of sunlight glinting off of steel. And in the middle of it stood Cato, an already bloodied sword in one hand and some kind of long knife in the other, staring straight at her.

She let out a terrified cry, and took off through the forest. This time she didn't look back.

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The first thing Cato did when the Cornucopia came into view was locate the nearest sword.

The second thing he did was look for Finch.

He found her at his three o'clock. She was looking around wildly, in absolute panic, and he realized she'd either forgotten her plan in the midst of her fear or couldn't figure out which way was west. He knew it was to his left, and he realized that meant she'd have to run all the way around one half of the circle, but he'd look out for her. He'd distract-or kill-anyone who looked like they were a threat to her.

 _Look at me!_  he screamed internally, staring her down.  _Look at me!_

When she finally did, he jerked his head to the left. His gesture seemed to help her center herself, because she stopped looking so scared, and her face took on the expression it always had whenever she was thinking hard about something.

When the gong went off, she leapt off of the right side of her pedestal, presumably to run around the northern half of the ring, and Cato sprinted for the sword, eager to get back to keeping an eye on her. He snatched it up and turned to lop off the head of the nearest tribute, Jason, from 6, who was coming at him with a machete.

Cato snatched the machete from Jason's hand as his headless body fell backwards, and, after a quick check to make sure he was relatively safe for the moment, he turned to find that Finch was not running to the west, as he had expected, but to the northeast. She was just about to the treeline, and when she reached it a couple of seconds later, she turned and looked straight at him. And then she opened her mouth in what looked like a scream and took off into the forest.

 _She's terrified of me_  he realized.

But he didn't have long to dwell on that thought because he was, after all, in the middle of a bloodbath. And so he returned to the task of grimly and swiftly disposing of his fellow tributes.

xxxxxxxxxx

Eleven. That was how many times the cannon went off a few minutes later.

Finch shook her head sadly as she ran along the bank of the stream. Eleven tributes dead already. Thirteen of them left.

She was about three miles from the Cornucopia, when the she approached a sharp bend in the stream. This she knew, was where the opening of the caves was. On the western bank somewhere, just at the southern curve of the bend. She dropped down into the edge of the stream, where the water came up to her ankles, and scanned the rocky vertical surfaces of the banks, and there it was. An small opening just big enough for her to squeeze into.

It was dark and smelled damp inside, but it was relatively dry, and it would shield her from the elements. There were a series of six small, interconnected caves, none of them big enough to stand up in. There appeared to be a bit of light coming from the last one, and as she made her way back there, she discovered that there was another opening, beneath the roots of a massive tree, and it too, was just big enough for her to fit through. So that was perfect. If danger approached from one direction, she wouldn't be trapped-she could escape out the other side.

But best of all, was the underground stream that ran beneath the fourth cave, which Finch could access through an opening about the size of her head in the rock floor. The water was ice cold and moving rapidly, just rapidly enough to discourage the flourishing of any dangerous bacteria and parasites.

Finch laughed in delight and scooped up a few handfuls of the water. It was so cold it made her teeth ache, but it felt wonderful going down her parched throat.

After that she left the cave to scrounge up some food. It was thankless work, and she was only able to find a handful of groundnuts and a couple of tough, edible roots, but they would suffice for the day.

Tomorrow she would head back south, to the lake, where Cato had told her the Careers would most likely set up camp. She knew they would have gathered all kinds of supplies from the Cornucopia, so she'd spy out a way to...borrow...some of them.

But for now, she set about the task of concealing both cave openings with a few strategically placed branches, careful to erase the tracks that her boots left in the mud, and then she settled herself against the wall of the first cave.

xxxxxxxxxx

The bloodbath was over in a few minutes.

As the cannons sounded, Cato counted them against the dead bodies that lay fanned out around the Cornucopia, relieved when the numbers matched up. That meant that Finch was still alive and probably a good half a mile north of him by now.

"Where's Lucan?" Serena asked as they gathered together at the mouth of the Cornucopia.

Marvel pointed to the southwestern edge of the ring with his spear, where Lucan's body lay.

They were all silent for a moment, temporarily humbled by the knowledge that, for the first time in more than a decade, a Career had not made it out of the bloodbath.

"Yeah," Marvel said after a minute or so. "And what's more, do you know who got him? That little twerp from 3. Panicked and threw an axe right into his chest. Didn't even really aim. It was pure luck."

"Where did all of the remaining tributes go?" Cato asked. "Did anyone see?"

So they stood in a circle and pieced together what they'd observed.

Girl on Fire had run to the west, as had the little girl from 12 and the girl from 8.

Loverboy had run to the south, along the edge of the lake, and so had the boy from 10.

Thresh had run to the east, most likely to the tall grassy fields.

And Aaron, the twerp from 3 had run to the north.

"Foxface went north too," Glimmer said to the group.

Cato cringed inwardly. He hadn't brought her up, and he'd hoped that no one else had noticed which direction she'd run.

"Alright," he said, and pointed to the lake. "Let's gather up a bunch of food and shit and take it over there so we can be close to the water."

As he gathered up armfuls of supplies and trudged back and forth to the lake, Cato thought about Finch. She was clearly terrified of him, and he had lost her trust. She had changed her entire plan because of what he'd done the day of the scoring sessions and what he'd said to her the next morning. It made him heartsick, but he couldn't blame her.

"Let's go hunting," Glimmer said excitedly once they'd finished putting together their camp a couple of hours later.

"Yes, let's," Clove agreed, rubbing her hands together sadistically. "Which direction?"

"South," Cato said quickly, before anyone could suggest north. "Let's go after Loverboy and 10."

"I thought you'd be itching to go after Girl on Fire," Serena said unwisely. "You know since she outscored you and all." Cato glared at her and she shut her mouth and backed up a girl from 12 had received the highest score of all of the tributes, and the first and only 11 ever, and Cato had had a shit fit when he found out.

But he'd had just as much of a shit fit after Loverboy made that stupid comment about having a thing for her during his interview. It had pissed him off so much because it would steal sponsors from him, but because he knew the two of them were just faking it for the audience, and here he was,  _actually_  in love with a tribute from another district, and for them to exploit the idea of a star-crossed romance seemed morally reprehensible to Cato.

"Loverboy first," he barked.

xxxxxxxxxx

They found him a few hours later, on the other side of the lake, and they had to chase him for a while. But eventually they had him backed up against a tree with the tip of Cato's sword poised at his throat.

"Let me," Clove called eager from behind him. "I could have a lot of fun carving up that handsome face."

"I can give you Katniss," Peeta said desperately.

"No you can't," Cato growled. "You have no idea where she is. We saw her run west."

"But I know how she works," Peeta said, his words tumbling out quickly as he held his hands up by his shoulders in surrender. "I know how she thinks. She will have set snares to catch animals and she'll be looking for certain types of trees to climb. I can't guide you right to her, it's true. But I can make it a hell of a lot easier to find her."

"Well it didn't take you long to throw her under the bus did it Loverboy?" Clove simpered.

Cato would have preferred to just off the boy immediately, but the others were looking at each other and shrugging, and...well, why the hell not? If they were hunting on the west side of the arena, then so much the better. Finch would be safer that way.

"Fine," he said curtly. "But one wrong move and I gut you like a fish." He turned to the others. "Back to camp so we can rest up. We'll go west tonight, after it gets dark."

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She came out of her cave when they played the anthem that night to watch as the faces of the fallen tributes played across the sky, and she was a little saddened to see Tate's and Brigita's faces there, and more than a little surprised to learn that Lucan had been killed.

But she was happy to see that Peeta, that nice boy from 12, and Thresh and his little district partner were all alive.

And though she wouldn't admit it to herself, somewhere deep inside, she was glad to see that Cato was still alive. Although she hadn't expected to see his face in the sky anyway.

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They had talked about killing at the Academy as though it was the greatest feeling in the world. As though it left one feeling proud and powerful and satisfied.

But as they played the anthem and "honored" the dead, all Cato felt was a stab of guilt each time the face of one of the three tributes he had killed flashed before his eyes.

Still. They had to die.

They had to die so that Finch could live.

And so he did not regret what he had done.

 _I'm sorry_  he said silently to the boy from 6 and the girl from 7 and the boy from 9.  _I'm sorry. But Finch...but Finch._


	7. Chapter 7

They pulled the night vision goggles out of their stash and went hunting in the west once the anthem was over, and within minutes they wound up finding the female tribute from 8 who, although not the  _Girl_ on Fire, had been foolish enough to  _light_  a fire.

Clove wanted to play with her food, but after a bit, Cato, who was not at all enjoying the show like he'd thought he would have before he'd met Finch, grew sick of listening to the poor girl whimper and scream, so he stepped in and jabbed his sword deep into her side to put an end to the whole thing.

He'd been full of adrenaline earlier that day at the bloodbath, so his guilt for his first three kills hadn't surfaced until a few hours later. But now, there was no adrenaline, and though his intent was to end 8's suffering, he was struck instantaneously with guilt over the blood on his hands.

"You stole my kill you dickwad!" Clove yelled, but Cato just rolled his eyes.

"She's not what we came here for and if Girl on Fire  _was_  anywhere near here, she sure as hell isn't now," he growled. They didn't need to know it had been a mercy kill. "Let's go do what we came here for and quit wasting our time."

They found one of her snares but they didn't find her, and they decided to return to camp after a couple of hours.

Glimmer snuggled up next to Cato, and he rolled his eyes but he tolerated it to keep the group dynamic peaceful for the time being.

It was his own fault anyway. He had decided at some point in the middle of training to abandon his plan of sleeping with Glimmer the night before the interviews, because he'd completely lost interest in her. But after the sponsor gala and the scoring session, he'd gone ahead and done it anyway out of spite towards Finch.

He'd been angry at Finch and at Thresh and at Girl on Fire for outscoring him, so it had been a pretty rough encounter.  _Fuck you Finch_  he'd thought, over and over again as he thrust in and out of Glimmer.  _Fuck. You._

And now he lay awake regretting everything that had happened from the night of the Sponsor Gala on, and studying their pile of supplies.

Food. She'd need food. And water purification pills. And a knife. Maybe some matches. Maybe some rope. He needed to put together a bag for her, but he had to be careful not to take too much, otherwise the others might notice.

And how to get it to her? Maybe he could take over for Clove, who was currently sitting up on watch for the group, and pack up a bag for Finch, and then sneak off fifty yards or so to the east, where the forest began, and leave it there for her.

He knew she'd make her way back toward the clearing at first light, to spy on the camp and figure out how to provide for herself.

But there were too many risk factors. What if one of the others saw him preparing it or sneaking off with it? Or what if she set up her reconnaissance point further to the northern edge of the treeline, rather than the eastern one? She'd never come across the bag then. And even if she did come far enough, she could still end up overlooking it completely. And then what if one of the other Careers came across it and got suspicious? Or Thresh, who Cato was pretty sure had retreated to the grassy fields that he knew from Finch's information lay just to the east of the forest?

He sighed to himself and decided against it. Maybe an opportunity would present itself to him in the near future if he would only be patient.

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The next morning, as they ate breakfast, an argument erupted over who should stay behind to guard the camp. No one was willing to miss out on the action and they all wanted a chance to be the one to kill the girl from 12.

As they yelled back and forth at each other-all except Loverboy-of course, Cato finally put his foot down.

"Enough!" he barked. "Go south and look for 10! I'll stay here, you whiny bitches. We'll go looking for 12 again tonight after dark."

"And leave our stuff unguarded?" Clove challenged.

"No one will mess with our shit at night. I doubt anyone else has night vision glasses to even be able to see what they're doing after sundown. They'll all be holed up somewhere, sleeping."

"You're gonna miss out on all the action if you stay behind," Glimmer pouted flirtily.

Cato grinned. "I already have four kills under my belt, which is more than the rest of any of you clowns. Let someone else have some fun for once."

"I could stay behind and keep you company," she purred.

 _Fuck_. "I need some alone time," he said firmly.

Glimmer looked miffed and slightly embarrassed at the rejection, and Cato was a little worried they'd start to suspect he was up to something, but then Clove stepped in and validated him.

"Probably best to leave him alone for a while. He's always been an introvert. Gets pretty cranky if he doesn't get his 'me time' in."

And with that they left.

Once he was certain they were gone, he got to work. He selected a brown backpack and filled it with protein bars and apples and little packages of dried fruit and nuts. He picked out a handful of sticks of beef jerky and a sleeve of crackers. He threw in some matches and a box of water purification pills and a canteen, along with a utility knife that could double as a weapon if necessary. He wanted to throw in a first aid kid, but they only had a few of those. The others would notice if one went missing. The same went for sleeping bags. Cato didn't like the thought of Finch being cold, but he remembered she'd said there were some caves up there to the northeast, and he figured that's where she'd stationed herself. So at least she'd be protected from the elements.

Once he was done, he walked east to the edge of the woods and dropped the bag once he was a few yards in.

She was there. Close by. Watching him. He could feel it. But he knew she wouldn't come to him, wouldn't let him see her.

So he walked back to camp and went about sorting and reorganizing the supplies, and when he returned to the trees half an hour later, he smiled. The bag was gone.

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 _Why is he doing this_? Finch wondered to herself as she looked down at the top of Cato's head.  _Why is he leaving me a bag?_

At first she thought maybe it was a trap. Maybe there was a snare nearby. She examined the area surrounding the bag, but she found no sign of anything.

And she would have worried that maybe he had someone lying in wait for her, but all of the other Careers and Peeta (what was he  _doing_  with them?) had gone to the south, skirting around the west side of the lake. She'd seen it with her own eyes.

So she shimmied down the tree and very slowly, very tentatively, she made her way to the bag, snatched it up, turned around, and took off running.

When she returned to her cave, she opened it to examine the contents, and immediately decided not to eat the apples. He could have rubbed them with some kind of poison for all she knew. It was a definite possibility. There had been poison in the Cornucopia or given as sponsor gifts in past games. And if she wanted to be  _really_  paranoid, she could choose not to trust any of the food he'd given her, even though the rest of it was sealed. But, really, being poisoned to death was better than starving to death, so she chose to take her chances with the sealed food.

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"What the fuck is he  _doing?_ " Enobaria exclaimed as she watched the little scene with the bag play out. "Brutus is he  _helping_  that little brat from 5?!"

"I owe her father a favor," Brutus said nonchalantly. "You know that."

"Still," Enobaria said, clearly pissed. "You've already helped her enough. And  _Cato_  doesn't owe her father anything. What's going on?"

"I don't know," Brutus lied. "But it doesn't matter anyway. Do you really think she stands a chance against Cato or Clove in the end?" he asked, even though he knew that the answer was  _yes_.

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"Look what we found!" Clove called out triumphantly when they returned a few hours later with the boy from 3.

"Didn't he go north?" Cato asked.

"Yeah but he got thirsty and he couldn't find any water, so he came back to the lake."

"Why didn't you just kill him?"

"He said he could help us."

 _Christ_. At this rate they'd end up letting everyone into their alliance. "Oh yeah. How so?" Cato asked skeptically.

"He says he can rig up some explosives for us. You know, rewire the ones they use at the pedestals." As soon as Marvel said it, Cato remembered that Finch had told him 3 could do that.

"And what are we gonna do with explosives?"

"Rig 'em up around the supplies. So we don't have to worry about leaving anyone to guard them."

The very idea of it made Cato's blood run cold. What if Finch dropped by to pilfer some supplies and accidentally blew herself up? "I don't like it," he said.

The others were quiet, although they looked disappointed. Except for Clove, who never hesitated to argue with him. "Why? What's wrong with the idea?"

"What if we set one off ourselves?"

"Well we'll mark them so they're obvious to  _us_. Just be careful."

Cato tried to think up another argument but he couldn't, and the others were all looking at him expectantly. "Fine," he sighed.

She was smart, he reassured himself. She'd notice that the boy from 3 had joined them, and she'd figure out why. She'd know that she needed to be careful if she approached their camp. She'd see the markings and know to avoid walking on those areas.

But it still left him uneasy.

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3 had made it a lot farther than Finch had expected. It was Day 3 of the games, and here he was eating like a king from the Career supply stash as he rewired the explosives from the tribute ring and buried them at regular intervals around the camp, carefully marking each spot with a little mound of fresh dirt while Clove supervised him, presumably to make sure he didn't try any funny business.

Finch couldn't hear much of what they said from her perch, but she observed that they were all careful to avoid each mound by about a 3 foot radius.

She also noticed that Cato sat with his arms crossed and glared stonily at 3 the entire time. He did not seem at all enthused about the situation.

Aaron had just finished the task when the billowing cloud of smoke started to fill up the western sky.

And then the fireballs started.

Finch had studied enough of the former games during her training to understand immediately that it was meant to drive tributes close to one another, into open conflict.

She wondered which tributes had fled to the west during and after the bloodbath, but mostly she was relieved that she had changed her mind on that first day and run to the northeast instead. It left her feeling a little shaken, actually, at how closely she'd avoided being caught up in all of that fire.

Oh. Duh. Girl on Fire was probably over there somewhere. Gamemakers loved irony.

As the smoke roiled across the sky, making its way toward the lake, the Careers, who had spent hours and hours reviewing footage of past games, began to figure it out too, and with hoots and cheers, they picked their way around the landmines and took off in the direction of the lake to catch whichever unlucky tributes the fire spit out onto its shore.

"You stay here!" Cato called out firmly to Aaron. "And you," he said, turning to Peeta, "come with us."

They all took off, and Aaron disappeared to the other side of the supply pile, presumably to watch the drama unfold.

 _Perfect_  Finch thought.  _If I can't see him, he can't see me_.

She slipped down from the branches and snuck across the clearing. When she reached the perimeter of landmines she hopped daintily between them until she reached the pile. Then she skirted around it and peeked cautiously around the other side. Aaron was seated on a wooden crate, his entire attention span focused on the Careers, who were almost to the lake by now.

It wasn't that she was in desperate need of food. Cato had put enough in that bag to feed her for a few more days, but she knew that any manner of things could go wrong and she could find herself wishing she'd taken more when she had the opportunity. So, as quietly as possible, she selected a few more protein bars and a few apples from a pile that she had deemed safe when she saw Serena and Marvel each take one from it earlier and slipped them into her empty bag. And then, with a few careful, stealthy skips and bounds, she took off back into the trees and back to her home base to add another day's worth of food to her own little stash.

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Cato couldn't see 12, but as he lay on his back at the foot of the tree along with Loverboy and the other Careers, he glared up into the branches.

They were  _Careers_  goddammit. And they hadn't been able to get her out of that tree. Clove had tried throwing a couple of knives, but Girl on Fire had to be at least 40 feet up, and gravity had kept her safe. And Glimmer...that twit had turned out to be useless with a bow and arrow. He had thought about climbing up there himself to manhandle her to death, but he knew those upper branches would never hold his weight. And he'd thought about sending Clove up there or snatching the bow from Glimmer to give it a try himself. He knew he'd probably get her eventually, even though she had managed to wedge herself into a spot between two branches that would be particularly difficult to hit. But he'd decided against it when Loverboy suggested they just wait her out. He wasn't in the mood to waste any more arrows or embarrass himself anymore, so he agreed. Besides, if they were occupied with 12 they couldn't be occupied with 5, and that suited him just fine.

So he had settled down into a pile of dried leaves between the roots of the tree, and Glimmer had, predictably, laid down next to him, pulling his arm from his side to use as a pillow. He wanted to push her away, but the night air was cool, and so he welcomed her body heat from a practical standpoint. And when he grew tired of glaring up into the tree, he imagined that the hair fanned across his arm was copper instead of blond, and that the body next to his was shorter and scrawnier, and he drifted off to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Much like Brutus 11 years prior, Cato didn't understand at first what the god awful buzzing sound that woke him was, and then he felt the first sharp prick and he was up and running for the lake.

He was about halfway to it when he realized that Glimmer wasn't there. And he remembered that Finch had told him not to let 12 get her hands on a bow. So he turned around and ran back, veering to the right a little to keep out of the path of the angry swarm of tracker jackers.

God it hurt. He didn't think he'd been stung that many times. Four, maybe five. But it felt like someone had injected acid into his bloodstream, and his joints and muscles were becoming painfully stiff and cramped.

As he ran, he passed Serena's body, but he didn't stop. When he reached Glimmer's swollen corpse, he knew he was too late. The bow and quiver of arrows were nowhere to be found. And then he heard  _fucking_  Loverboy's voice, screaming at someone to run. He ran towards the sound, and, grabbing his sword from his belt, he lunged for Girl on Fire as soon as he saw her, ignoring the searing pain that that was throbbing through his entire body. But her stupid little boyfriend jumped in front of him and took the stab in the thigh.

Cato let out a cry of rage and lunged forward again with his sword, determined to kill the boy and run after the girl, who had gotten hold of the bow and arrows, but everything around him was starting to look shimmery and wavy. And now, on top of the acute pain that was wracking his body, his head felt like it was going to explode, and waves of nausea were descending upon him.

When Loverboy dodged his blow, he gave up and chased after the girl. He caught up to her quickly, and when he was within a few feet of her, he lifted his sword to strike. But all of a sudden, she shrunk in size and her dark hair turned to copper, and then she turned around and looked at him sorrowfully with beautiful amber eyes.

He gasped and dropped his sword, horrified that he had almost killed the person he loved more than anything else in the world.

And then he fell to the forest floor and lost consciousness.

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Finch returned to the Career camp not long after sunrise, amazed to find it abandoned, apart from 3, who was out like a log and snoring appallingly loudly for one so small. She had figured she'd have to wait at least a few hours before she'd have an opportunity to steal up to the supply pile again.

She picked her way carefully past the landmines and stocked up on more protein bars and apples. This time, she also grabbed a few sticks of beef jerky and a length of cord.

She had just reached the treeline when she heard the screams. They weren't far. Maybe a quarter of a mile away to the west. Four voices at least. Some female. Some male. And one of them was definitely Cato's.

She knew she should just ignore it and head back to her caves, but from the sound of Cato's cries, she could tell that he was in some kind of pain, some kind of danger.

And then two cannons went off.

She forgot that she was angry with him.

She forgot that she hated him.

She forgot that she didn't love him.

She simply turned and ran, heedless of the danger she was putting herself in, towards the sound of his voice.

By the time she had reached the far edge of the clearing, all of the screams, including Cato's, had ceased. She ran frantically into the woods, zigzagging through the trees, with no idea which direction to go.

She almost ran smack into poor Peeta, who, badly injured and bleeding, was limping off to the west. For a second, Finch thought about stopping to help him, but she had no medical supplies with her, and really, what could she do? And as bad as she felt for him, she had to find Cato.

She found him a few minutes later, facedown and unconscious on the ground. His sword, wet with blood, lay a few feet from his body.

Finch panicked and dropped to her knees, and with a strength she'd had no idea she possessed, she managed to roll him over onto his back. There was no blood seeping through his clothing, and she was confused. All she saw was one welt on his cheek, just under his eye. She pushed his shirt and jacket up, trying to find out what had happened, and found two more welts on his abdomen. She leaned over to examine them, and when she saw the tiny stinger embedded in each one, she realized he'd been attacked by tracker jackers.

He had five stings total. She discovered one on his shoulder and one on his thigh in addition to the two on his stomach and the one on his face.

She rolled up her sleeves, and set to work, and half an hour later, she had removed all of the stingers, and applied a mixture of milkweed sap and mashed up wormwood leaves to the welts to bring down the swelling and draw out the poison. It would help immensely, but he'd still be out for at least 24 hours, she knew.

So she made a pillow of leaves to cushion his head and smoothed his damp, sweaty hair off his forehead. Then she chose the comfiest looking tree, scampered on up, and settled in to watch over him.

It was going to be a long 24 hours.

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" _What_ is going  _on_?," Enobaria whispered. But this time she wasn't mad. "This doesn't make any sense."

"Yes it does," Brutus sighed. "It makes complete sense."

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That night, after she had covered Cato's stings with a fresh mixture of sap and leaves, Finch watched, secured to tree branch by the length of cord she'd stolen from the Career camp, as Glimmer's and Serena's faces appeared in the sky, and the next morning, she slipped down the trunk as soon as the sun's rays began to filter through the trees, and wrote the names of the dead in the dirt next to Cato with a stick.

She tended to his welts again before heading to the banks of the nearby stream that met up with the lake a few hundred yards away to refill her canteen.

When she returned, the sight that greeted her nearly stopped her heart. There stood the sixteen-year-old boy from 10, creeping towards the unconscious Cato, a knife in his hand.

"Don't even fucking think about it," she said, her voice low and menacing, and his head snapped up. She had slipped the knife from her pocket and held it up, poised to throw.

"Oh please. What are you gonna do with that? Huh? You got a fucking 5. And I'm doing us all a favor by killing this asshole."

"I'm not fucking kidding," she warned again.

He lifted the hand with the knife and aimed it at her, and then he pulled his arm back. Just a little.

So she pulled her arm back. Just a little.

He pulled back a little more.

She pulled back a little more.

They let their knives fly at exactly the same time.

His sliced through the flesh that covered her left ribs, but it didn't stick.

Hers, however, lodged itself right in his crotch.

She'd been aiming for his chest.

 _Ooops_.

She could hear Cato's voice in her head now.  _You let go too early. You've_ _got_   _to follow through Finch._

The boy from 10 howled in agony and ripped the knife from his body, tossing it to the side before dropping into the fetal position to rock back and forth in pain.

When Finch lunged for the knife he'd thrown at her, he had the good sense to push himself up off the ground and stumble off, sobbing and bleeding.

Once he was gone, Finch looked down at the gash in her side. Now that her adrenaline had worn off, she realized it hurt like a motherfucker. It was about three inches long, deep enough that she could see the bones of a couple of her ribs, and bleeding profusely.

She gathered up both knives, and then retreated into her tree to remove her jacket and apply pressure to the wound.

Eventually the bleeding slowed, but it never fully stopped, oozing steadily onto her skin for the next few hours. Finch rested her head against the trunk and wished that she'd heeded Cato's advice to try to get a few sponsors as a backup plan. She had no medicine, no first aid supplies. She'd have to return to the Career camp to try to find some, and she wasn't sure when exactly she would have the opportunity.

She could just do it now, but she couldn't leave Cato alone. He'd almost been killed during her short trip to get more water, and this errand would take her at least fifteen minutes  _if_  everything went smoothly. God knew who could wander up on him during that time.

Finch was angry with herself. Why  _couldn't_  she leave Cato? He didn't give a rat's ass about her. If the situation had been reversed he'd have put his sword through her gut. She was pathetic, a foolish puppy dog who would do anything for a boy who treated her like dirt. Never in a million years had she thought she'd be  _that_  girl. What would her mother think of her if she could see her now? What did her father, who must surely be watching, think?

But she couldn't. As much as she hated herself for it, she couldn't abandon Cato while he was so vulnerable.

It was late afternoon when he started to stir, and, wanting to be well away from him and his sword by the time he was fully conscious, Finch scrambled down the tree, gritting her teeth in pain as the movement stretched the edges of her wound.

She set the canteen near him, along with an apple and a protein bar, and hid behind a nearby tree to watch as he slowly regain consciousness.

By the time he was fully awake, she had already turned and headed back towards the northeast.

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Cato was groggy when he woke, and he lay there for a few minutes, trying to piece together what had happened. When he remembered and sat up, he was surprised to find that he felt no pain. He rubbed his hands over his face and his arms, his torso and his legs, but nothing hurt, and his hands came away sticky with some kind of mashed up leaf mixture that someone seemed to have used to treat his stings.

His sword lay on the ground a few feet from him, along with a canteen, an apple, and a protein bar.

Scratched into the dirt beside his sword was the underlined word  _Dead_. And beneath that were two names.

_Glimmer_

_Serena_

It confirmed what he had already pretty much known, that the girls from 1 and 4 had not survived the tracker jacker attack.

Cato ran his tongue over his chapped lips. His throat was dry from dehydration and his stomach was knotted with hunger pains. How long had he been out? He reached for the canteen and downed half of it in three gulps, and then he devoured the food. Clove must not have gotten stung, or if she had, not as badly as he had, and as he looked around at her small bootprints in the dirt around him, he was grateful to her for coming to take care of him.

But as he lifted the canteen to take another swig, he realized that the bootprints didn't belong to Clove.

There, on the sleeve of his jacket, was a single, copper-colored strand of hair.

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All of Panem watched in confusion as the ruthless boy from 2 smiled softly and plucked the strand of hair from his jacket to hold up to the sunlight.

They gasped when he reached into his pocket and pulled out a lock of red hair, and added the rogue strand to it.

And when he curled the lock around his fingers and stroked it with his thumb before tucking it away safely in his jacket, they let out a collective sigh.  _Oh how sweet_  the women cooed.  _Another pair of star crossed lovers_.

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David Crossley tilted his head at the tv screen as he realized the implications of Cato's token.

And for the first time in over three months, hope welled up inside of him as he realized that his daughter could make it through this.

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Her jacket was covered in blood. The left side of her shirt was soaked through. And as she looked down at the gash in her ribs, Finch realized that it was too wide and too deep to close itself up. She splashed some water on it, praying it would be enough to ward off infection. She had had no problems finding plants to help with tracker jacker stings, but on her journey back to her base, she had not been able to find anything with antiseptic properties. She thought about going back out to scavenge for them with the last hour or so of sunlight left in the day, but it had been a long journey back, and the exertion of it had caused her blood to start flowing steadily again.

So she swallowed a few handfuls of water and ate a meal of apples and nuts, and then she curled up on her right side, her jacket pressed into her wound, and shivered as night descended onto the arena.

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Cato returned to the camp a couple of hours before sunset to find only the boy from 3 there.

"Where are Marvel and Clove?" he demanded, but Aaron just shrugged.

"Dunno. Haven't seen 'em. Haven't seen anyone. Just the redhead. She ran past yesterday. From there," he pointed first to the eastern side of the clearing, "to there," and then to the west.

Cato sighed and wandered off to look for his remaining allies.

He found them on the lakeshore, alive and with only a couple of stings each. But no one had treated their welts, as Finch had his, so they were still out cold.

He picked Clove up and hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and made the short walk back to the camp.

"See if you can find something for tracker jacker stings in one of the first aid kits," he said to Aaron, and then turned back toward the lake.

Marvel was a hell of a lot heavier, but Cato managed to get him up onto his shoulders, and as the sun set on the fifth day in the arena, he let out a tired  _oof_  as he deposited 1's dead weight onto the ground just beyond the perimeter of the ring of landmines.

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Clove and Marvel woke the next morning and Cato told them about Glimmer and Serena.

When they asked how he'd gotten better so quickly, he lied and said he'd only been stung once.

It was while the other two Careers were resting that Cato saw the boy from 10 stumble, well, crawl really, out of the west and into the lake.

"Be right back," he said as he snatched a knife from the pile of weapons.

When he saw Cato approaching, 10 began swimming frantically toward the center of the lake. But Cato caught up with him within seconds.

"I'm sorry," he said just before he slit the boy's throat. "I'm sorry. But Finch."

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 _Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll go look for medicine_  Finch thought to herself that evening as she poked her head out of her cave to see which tribute's death the cannon had signaled earlier that afternoon.

She'd spent the entire sixth day resting in her cave. Although her wound never gushed, and was now back to oozing, it had flowed steadily all through the previous night. She knew she was losing blood just quickly enough that her body was struggling to keep up with the task of making more, and the deficit was gradually increasing.

But maybe with a night's rest and plenty of food and water, her body would be able to replenish itself enough for her to have the energy to make the journey to the camp and find something to properly clean the wound with.

She wasn't surprised at all when 10's face flashed across the night sky. The knife to the crotch would have slowed him down significantly, making him easy prey for the remaining tributes. Like her, he probably wouldn't have had time to die from infection or blood loss yet, and so she figured he wasn't officially her kill, but she wept anyway. She'd had a hand in it, and she grieved the loss of her innocence.

But she did not regret what she had done.

"I'm sorry," she whispered before she crawled back into her cave. "I'm sorry. But Cato."


	9. Chapter 9

The gash in her side began to show signs of infection the following day. It hurt more and the skin around it was starting to turn pink and warm.

She made her way slowly to the Career camp, trying her best to keep the wound from opening further and bleeding at a pace any faster than an ooze.

They were still there, so she hoisted herself gingerly into a tree to start her stakeout.

It was early afternoon when her opportunity arose. Thin wisps of gray smoke had begun to curl up into the western sky. Marvel stood and pointed, and the others followed suit. Finch couldn't hear anything they said, but she could see that they were formulating some kind of plan, and Cato and Clove appeared to be debating something. Cato turned and looked directly into the stand of trees where Finch was hiding, and she scooted further back into the foliage, afraid he'd seen her. His expression was hesitant and uneasy. After a few seconds he turned back towards Clove and nodded, and then, weapons in hand, they all left.

Finch waited until they had been out of sight for what she figured was at least five minutes, and then she made her way to the supply pile and started to search out what she was looking for. She found a few gauze bandages in the first aid kids, large enough to cover her wounds, and she took one of them, but she didn't find any medicine to help with infection. There were still plenty of places in the camp it could be stashed, however, so Finch continued her search, stopping here and there to grab an apple or a package of crackers to add to her knapsack. She was hoping to find another canteen, as well, since she'd left hers with Cato, but she didn't see one.

And then she heard a rustle in the woods behind her, to the west. Were they back  _already_? She turned her head and swore she saw movement among the trees.

And so she abandoned her search, and hopping delicately out of the treacherous ring of explosives, hightailed it back to the northeast, her adrenaline overcoming the burning pain in her side.

A few minutes and a few hundred yards later, a series of explosions drowned out the calls of the birds and the rustle of the leaves, and the ground beneath Finch's feet shook.  _The supply pile_. Someone must have accidentally set it off. But who? Surely not one of the Careers. Maybe the movement she had seen in the woods was someone else coming to raid the camp. Someone who didn't realize the ground was mined.

But it didn't matter who it was. The explosion would send the Careers, already out for blood, sprinting back to the camp, and they'd be livid. And she didn't want to be anywhere near them. So she turned and made her way, as fast she could, back to her caves.

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 _She's smart. She has to have realized that the ground is rigged. Who even says she's anywhere near the camp. And even if she is there's no way_ _she'll_ -and then a boom so deep that Cato felt it in his bones cut off his uneasy reassurances to himself. And another. And another. And another.

"What the-?!" Clove yelled, but Cato's throat had lost the ability to utter any sound whatsoever.

He turned and sprinted as fast as he could back to the camp.  _No. No. No. No._  The word echoed through his brain with each painful heartbeat, with each thud of his booted feet on the ground.

As the smoke and the ashes and the charred scattering of twisted metal and debris that littered the ground of the clearing came into view, he fell to his knees and everything around him disappeared from view and all he saw was white.

White. That was the color of his shock as he realized that she had blown herself to bits. White like ice with the sun glaring off of it. White that froze the blood in his veins and stopped his heart from pumping. White that temporarily paralyzed his limbs.

Red. That was the color of his rage when looked at the boy from 3, who was just emerging from the trees. Red like blood but hotter, so so so much hotter. Boiling, in fact. Red that seeped into the tips of his toes and flooded up through his body and out of his mouth, melting the ice. Red that lit a fire up under his ass and sent him rushing headlong at the boy, sent his hands to snap his neck.

Black. That was the color of his grief. Black like emptiness, black like nothingness. Nothing mattered. Nothing had meaning. Nothing made sense. Nothing in the world was worth anything anymore.

Gray. That was the color of his relief when the anthem played that night and her face did not appear in the sky beside 3's. Gray like a sudden rainstorm that blows in from the west with no warning. Gray that washed away his grief, in the form of tears streaming down his face as he hid his head in his knees.

Amber. That was the color of his hope. Glowing, translucent amber with flecks of gold floating lazily through it.

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It was seriously infected. The skin around it was no longer pink, but an angry red. It oozed pus, and it smelled disgusting, and even the lightest brush of the fabric of her shirt sent sharp stabs of pain racing through her nerves.

She was weak and lightheaded from the blood she had lost on her journey home the afternoon before and she spent the entire eighth day of the games curled up in a feverish ball, her shirt pulled up to expose her wound to the cool, damp air of the cave.

At some point two cannons went off within the space of a few minutes, and Finch prayed that neither of them were for Cato.

And then, late that afternoon, Claudius Templesmith's creepy, nasally voice filled the air, inviting the remaining tributes to a feast at dawn at the Cornucopia. But no ordinary feast. A feast that would provide each district with a backpack containing something they desperately needed.

Finch had plenty of food. She had an entire underground stream's worth of water. She was shivering but she was not literally freezing. No one could find her and if they did, she had a knife.

The only thing she needed was medicine. And that, she knew, was what would be in her backpack. And she didn't know if she had the strength to make it to the Cornucopia, let alone safely past the threats of the other tributes and back to safety. But she had to try. It was her only hope.

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"What do you think is in our backpack?" Clove asked Cato after the announcement had been made. "I mean we  _need_  everything, since we lost it all."

"I don't know," he said distractedly.

_She needs something desperately. What does she need? Is she sick? Injured? In pain? Has she broken a bone? Is she starving? Is she dying of thirst?_

He thought about abandoning Clove and going to find her. He knew she was still alive. The hovercraft that had appeared shortly after the two cannon blasts had descended in the west, where Marvel had gone to hunt 12, and there was no reason for her to be there. But he couldn't remember exactly where the northeastern caves she had mentioned were located. And he had next to nothing. No medical supplies, no food. Only a sword and a knife and a canteen.

"Well we need a plan for tomorrow," Clove was saying."One of us should go for the bag and the other one can stay back, just inside the treeline, and cover for the other."

His answer was immediate. "I'll go in for the bag." He wanted to be there to protect Finch.

"I was thinking I'd go. I'm a smaller target for 12's arrows. And you can stay behind and cover for me."

Cato opened his mouth to protest, but maybe it would be better if he stayed behind. He'd be able to see the entire clearing, he could monitor everyone at once and keep a better eye on Finch, although he'd have to be prepared to sprint into the middle of it all if anyone even came near her. And this way he'd be able to see Clove, too, so he could distract her if it looked like she was going to throw a knife at Finch. If she stayed back in the trees, he wouldn't be able to see who she was aiming for. Not to mention, he wouldn't have to focus on getting the bag  _and_  looking out for the girl he loved at the same time.

"Alright," he nodded. "Sounds good."

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 _Think Finch think._ She shook her head, trying to clear it so she could come up with a plan for the feast.  _You have to get there before anyone else_.  _You have to be closer to it than anyone else. And you have to run out of there before anyone attacks you. But how?_

And then it hit her.  _Get to the Cornucopia before dawn. Hide out in it. The second the bags appear, snatch yours and run for cover. No one will come after you immediately; they'll be too focused on getting their own bags._

But she was worried that if she fell asleep in her cave that night, she'd sleep through the feast. The solution, obviously, was to stay the night in the Cornucopia.

There were only about two hours, tops, left before the sun went down and then she wouldn't be able to see to make her way there. So she guzzled a few handfuls of water, filled her pack with some food and her knife, and made her way to the clearing.

The walk there was agonizing and she was exhausted, but she reached it about ten minutes before sundown, and stayed hidden in the trees until well after the anthem had played and Marvel's and Rue's faces appeared in the sky, shedding a few tears for the little girl, who had seemed so bright and pure and warm and innocent. Then, under cover of darkness, she crept to the mouth of the Cornucopia and slipped inside to wait until dawn.

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"Ready?" Clove whispered. They stood just behind a stand of trees at the western edge of the clearing, and the sun's rays were beginning to peek over the horizon.

"Ready."

Clove turned back to face the clearing just as the ground in front of the mouth of the Cornucopia opened up, and a table with four backpacks on it rose up out of it.

Clove started to take a step out into the open but stopped all of a sudden "What the-"

There was a flash of movement, all dark gray and olive green and copper, at the mouth of the Cornucopia, as Finch raced out of it, snatched her backpack, rounded to her left and disappeared behind the other side of the metal structure.

At first Cato smiled to himself. She was so clever. Leave it to her to think up such a good plan. But his smile faded as he realized that something had seemed off about her. Forgetting all about Clove, who had recovered herself and run out towards the table, he turned to the north and ran along the edge of the circle of trees that surrounded the Cornucopia so he could get a better view of Finch.

She wasn't limping and she was still fairly quick, but she didn't have half of the energy or agility she had displayed during their time training together. She was holding her torso stiffly as she ran, and her jacket was covered in blood. He could see that a substantial amount had dripped down onto the left leg of her green cargo pants as well. But what scared him the most was that her normally rich, creamy skin had a dull, sickly pallor to it.

She'd obviously been injured and was suffering from blood loss, and possibly infection. He continued to follow her progress, running north along the edge of the treeline and further into the woods as he swung around to the east, intending to catch up to her and help her.

And then a cannon went off.

"Cato!" It was Clove's voice and she was screaming. "Cato!"

Fear and guilt seized his heart and he turned and ran back toward the Cornucopia.

"Clove!" he called, but she didn't respond. "Clove!"

He emerged into the clearing to see 11 fleeing to the east. Clove lay on the ground beside the Cornucopia, her head bashed in and bloody.

Not far from her lay the Girl on Fire, one of Clove's knives in her heart. The cannon had been for her.

He ran to kneel at Clove's side and took one of her hands in his. She was still alive, but barely. She stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes, which were rapidly beginning to darken, and though her mouth opened and closed, no sound came out.

"Clove," he whispered, smoothing the bloody strands of hair from her forehead. "Stay with me. Don't go. Please. Stay with me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

But all of the light had left her eyes and her hand had gone limp in his, and then a second cannon sounded.

 _I'm sorry_  he thought to the girl who had been like a sister to him.  _But Finch._

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Somehow, the hope from the feast had given Finch just enough energy to make it back to her cave.

She stumbled inside and immediately gulped down a few handfuls of water. Then she tore open her backpack to find a round tin of incredibly potent Capitol antiseptic salve, along with a small orange bottle of antibiotics to take orally, and two fresh gauze bandages. She almost cried with relief.

Her hands shook as she downed one of the capsules, and then she stripped off her jacket and shirt and cleaned the wound, so elated over her good fortune that she barely felt any pain from it. She slathered a generous coating of salve over the wound, covered it with a fresh bandage and, wrapping her torso in her blood-caked jacket, went to sleep on the floor of her cave.

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Cato was so angry he was shaking. He picked up the bloody rock and threw it at the Cornucopia as hard as he could, denting the metal.

11 had not only killed Clove, he had stolen the bag intended for District 2, and now Cato was going to  _fucking_   _kill_  that bastard.

Finch had whatever it was she needed and now all that stood between her and the victory that would send her back to her father and her brothers was Thresh and Loverboy. And he would find them both and kill them.

And then...and then…

He turned to the east and set off in search of the grassy fields and the boy from 11.

It took him less than an hour to find him.

Cato peeked through the grass to see Thresh pulling out a set of body armor from the backpack marked with a 2.

 _That's my fucking armor_  Cato thought and his blood boiled.  _To protect me from you and from 12's arrows._ But he forced himself to be patient and wait for the perfect moment to strike.

And it came less than a minute later. Chuckling to himself, Thresh stood up from his crouch, leaving his scythe on the ground a few feet from him, and started to pull his shirt over his head so he could don the body armor meant for Cato.

It was then, while his shirt was covering his face and blocking his vision that Cato lunged forward, sword in hand, and sliced Thresh practically in half across the abdomen.

Within two minutes, Thresh had bled out and the cannon had sounded.

This time, Cato was not sorry.

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She slept for more than 24 hours, waking briefly twice, first at the sound of a cannon, and second, when the anthem played. She crawled to the opening of her cave, and cried when she saw Thresh's face in the sky, although at this point, she would have cried no matter who it was who'd been killed.

It was late in the morning on the tenth day of the games when she finally sat up, fully alert, and peeled back her bandage to check on her wound.

She wasn't completely out of the woods yet, and the wound was still gaping and oozing blood and pus, but it no longer hurt as badly, the skin around it had calmed down substantially, and her fever was gone.

She laughed in delight.

And then another cannon went off.

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Cato had gone hunting in the west for Loverboy after he killed Thresh, but he had no luck that evening, so he settled down between the roots of a tree when night fell, and picked his search back up the next day.

After a few hours of wandering around, he found the trail of dried blood and it pretty much led him straight to the cave on the edge of the stream. As he approached the mouth, the stench of decaying flesh was so strong, that he wondered if he'd find 12's corpse, but then he remembered that he hadn't heard a cannon go off.

Peeta was breathing, but barely, and his eyes were glassy, his skin deathly pale and clammy. When Cato looked down at his leg he almost vomited. It was black and pus was oozing from the gash in his thigh.

Any loathing he'd ever felt toward the boy from 12 rushed out of him at the sight of it.

"Jesus Christ Loverboy" he exhaled as he met Peeta's eyes.

"Please," Peeta said, his voice so soft Cato could barely hear him. He was looking back and forth from Cato's face to the knife in his belt.

"Yeah, sure. Of course," Cato nodded. He placed the knife at Peeta's throat, and was about to press the blade into his flesh, when he hesitated and pulled back.

"Did you love her?" he asked.

"Katniss?"

"Yeah."

Peeta nodded. "I would have died for her," he rasped. "But instead she died for me. And now you're gonna win."

Cato shook his head. "I'm not gonna win."

Peeta gave him a confused look.

"Finch. From 5."

Peeta stared at him incredulously. "I don't believe you."

Cato didn't know why, but he felt the need to prove it to the boy from 12. To show him, before he died, that there was more to him than brutality and violence, that he wasn't just a Capitol lapdog.

So he reached into his jacket, into the pocket that rested against his chest, and he pulled out the lock of her hair and he showed it to Peeta, whose eyes widened in wonder. "Her mother died of cancer three years ago. Her father's paralyzed from the waist down. Accident at work. He's in a wheelchair. She has two little brothers. Hyde's 11. Gavin's 9. Finch works on days she doesn't have school to provide for them. Well...now she won't have to do that."

"But that day," Peeta said, his voice labored, "that day before the scoring sessions…"

Cato grinned sheepishly. "She was laughing with 11 at the sponsor gala the night before and...it was a misunderstanding."

"So you're….gonna...let her...win?"

"Yeah."

The two boys eyed one another for a minute, a sense of newfound respect and empathy between them.

"I'm ready," Peeta said at last.

Cato lifted the knife to his throat again. "I'm sorry."

"'s ok. I asked you to. And anyway..I'll see you soon?"

"See you soon." And as Peeta closed his eyes, Cato pressed the blade firmly into his flesh.

The cannon sounded a minute later.

Cato turned and walked out of the cave, and, with firm feet and a clear head, began to make his way to the northeast.

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Finch shivered with fear. It was just her and Cato now, she was sure of it. She picked up her knife and ran her fingers along the hilt nervously. Should she stay in her cave and try to hide from him? Or would he know to look for her here? Maybe she should try to find another place to hide from him. But where else should she go? She had no canteen. Her purification pills were useless without a container to put water in. Even if she could evade him, the threat of dehydration loomed large. And her wound...even though the infection was improving, movement meant blood loss. She was already feeling weak and dizzy. She didn't know what to do, and so she sat, paralyzed by fear and indecision.

And then the gamemakers made her decision for her.

The underground stream that ran beneath the cave floor began to rise rapidly, gushing up into the cave at an alarming rate, and Finch snatched up her backpack and scrambled out into the open

 _Well, I guess that question's answered_  she thought to herself. But now which direction should she go?

She was attempting to recreate the holographic map in her head when the flock of birds descended on her. There had to have been at least a hundred of them. They were the shape and size of crows, but their feathers were snow white and their beaks and talons, unusually long and sharp as knives, were blood red in color.

When she felt one of them grip her hair with its talons, she shrieked and took off running through the trees, dropping her knife and her backpack in the dirt.

She ran and she ran for what seemed like miles and she wondered why they hadn't killed her yet, since they were having no trouble keeping up with her.

And then she remembered.

They hadn't been sent to kill her, but to drive her into open conflict.

They'd been sent to drive her straight to him.

Maybe if she just stopped...but no, a series of sharp jabs to her head and back sent her body propelling itself forward again until, eventually she collapsed to her knees with a cry, exhausted from running and infection and blood loss. She curled herself into a ball on the forest floor, covering her head with her arms to shield herself as best as she could from the sharp beaks and talons.

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"Why are they doing this?" Enobaria cried. "They already know what's going to happen! The two of them won't fight each other, or at least Cato won't fight her!"

But Brutus knew why. He knew  _exactly_ why. "Look at the clock," he said in dismay. "It's almost noon. They know Cato's planning to kill himself for her. If they'd just left the two of them to themselves, they wouldn't have crossed paths for at least another hour, and the announcement would have been made already. But if they drive them together with only a few minutes to spare it's more dramatic. It's more suspenseful. There's still a chance he could go through with it."

"This is awful," Lyme whispered.

"I know," Enobaria agreed.

And for the first time, the Victors of District 2, the Capitol's favorite lapdogs, began to hate the games.

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All of sudden, the air around Finch grew quiet and still, and she opened her eyes to find that the flock of birds had disappeared. She pushed herself to her knees, trying to catch her breath, and then she saw him. He was walking towards her slowly, but steadily, his sword in his right hand.

She knew she should get up and at least try to flee for safety, even though she'd never be able to outrun him, but she was paralyzed with fear. It felt like a nightmare. She understood exactly how much danger she was in but she couldn't move. Her limbs were too heavy. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

As he approached, she could see that the look in his eyes was resolute and determined, but curiously void of either cruelty or glee, and she thought that maybe he meant to kill her quickly and mercifully by chopping off her head or slitting her throat with his sword, instead of giving the Capitol the grand finale they were so accustomed to.

When he was only a few steps away, she panicked and tried one more time to force herself to her feet, to force herself to run, but still, as if in a nightmare, her body refused to cooperate. And so she closed her eyes and bowed her head and waited for death.

But instead she heard the dull thud of metal hitting dirt. Maybe he had decided to snap her neck, she thought, instead of slitting her throat.

And then she felt his warm, calloused hand circle her wrist and he was pulling her to a standing position. Something cool and smooth was pressed into the palm of her hand, and Finch opened her eyes in astonishment to find that it was the hilt of his knife.

He dropped to his knees in front of her. "Go home Finch," he whispered.

When she didn't move he took her wrist in his fingers again and held her hand to his collarbone so that the blade was pressed against his throat. "Come on. Time to go home." His voice was so gentle it hurt.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head and trying to back away. But his grip on her wrist was firm and his other arm was around her waist, holding her to him. "I can't."

"Yes you can."

"No!" she cried. "I can't!" Tears were streaming down her face, blurring her vision.

He nodded in understanding and stood, and Finch dropped the knife to the ground.

He backed away one step, two steps, three steps, four and he leaned down to retrieve his sword and then he positioned it so that he could impale himself.

It was 11:57am on Day 10 of the games.

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They screamed like madmen all throughout the Capitol and the districts and in the District 2 mentoring room. It was pure pandemonium.

"No you idiot!"

"Don't do it! Don't do it!"

"Three minutes! Three goddamned minutes!"

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As she wiped her tears away, Finch realized what he was doing, and the determination in his eyes told her that he wasn't bluffing.

"Cato no!" she screamed, running towards him.

He dropped his sword and caught her in his arms. She clung to his waist. "No!" she sobbed.

And then his hands were on either side of her face, his thumbs brushing away her tears and he was bending his head down to kiss each eyelid. Finch grasped the fabric of his shirt in her fists and pressed her face into his chest.

"It's ok," he whispered into her hair, running his hands up and down her back soothingly. "This is what I want. I knew I wasn't going home before I set foot in here."

"I don't understand!"

"I want you to be the one. I want you to win."

"I don't understand!" she cried again.

"You Scheherazaded me," he whispered softly into her ear.

"I what?"

"You Scheherazaded me. Except it took you less than 90 nights instead of a thousand and one."

"That's not what I was trying to do!" she cried, wrenching out of his grasp.

"I know. I know. But that's what happened."

"No-oo, you can't! I'm just an ugly girl from an outlying district and I-"

"Shhh, shh, shh," he cut her off, pulling her back into his arms. One of his hands came up to cup the back of her head and he massaged her scalp with the pads of his fingers, while the other rubbed circles over her back. "No you're not. You're beautiful. I thought so at the parade and every day after. I just said that to be mean."

"I called you stu-pi-hid," she sobbed.

"Because I humiliated you in front of all of them. I know you didn't mean it."

"But why?!" she cried into his chest.

"I don't want to win without you. Who will tell me stories at night? Who will teach me about things I never even knew existed? Huh? You'll be fine without me. But I won't be without you. Come on. You have to let me go Finch."

"No! I don't want to win without you either!"

"You'll be fine," he whispered. "You have to go home. What about Hyde and Gavin? And your father?" He drew back from her and took her face in his hands and he looked into her eyes. "Hmm?"

She knew he was right, but her mind was racing wildly. If she could just distract him from his plan for a little longer then maybe...maybe she could think of a way to get them both out of this. She couldn't bear to let him go, this boy she'd fallen in love with, this boy she'd never even kissed.

She stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his, tears still streaming down her cheeks as she tightened her arms around him as hard as she could.

He sighed into her mouth and returned the kiss, caressing her cheekbones with his thumbs.

"Please don't go," she whispered against his lips. "I love you."

He pulled away and looked down at her wonderingly. "You do?"

Her throat closed up and another wave of tears filled her eyes. She couldn't speak, she could only nod.

He put his forehead to hers and stroked her hair. "I love you too. But I have to do this. There's no other-"

But he was cut off by the sound of Claudius Templesmith's voice. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please congratulate your Victors, Cato Hadley from District 2 and Finch Crossley from District 5."


	10. Chapter 10

It all happened so fast.

The two of them stared at each other, unable to fully comprehend what their ears had just heard.

All Cato knew was that suddenly they were being dragged out of each other's arms by Peacekeepers and loaded onto a hovercraft, and they were taking Finch away from him and her eyes were wide with fright. A glass door slammed shut between the two of them and then people in white coats were strapping her down onto a table and jamming needles into her veins.

"Finch!" he roared, pounding his fists against the glass. "Finch!"

"It's ok, son," said a voice behind him and he whirled around to find a middle-aged man in a Peacekeeper uniform watching him sympathetically. "They're just giving her some blood and some fluids."

Cato remembered the blood on her pants and her shirt. "What happened to her?" he demanded. "And why did we both get to live?" He was seized with a sudden terror that they had found out about her spying on the gamemakers, or that Heavensbee had turned them in for the map she had drawn for him, and now they were being dragged off to be imprisoned or executed.

"It's the Third Quarter Quell twist," the Peacekeeper explained, answering his second question first. Cato sighed with relief as the man filled him in on the details and terms of the twist. "And the blood?" he asked when the man had finished.

"She got cut defending you from the boy from 10. While you were unconscious. On her left side, by her ribs. It was pretty bad. It was too wide to close up, so she just kept losing blood. Slowly, but it started to really affect her after a couple of days. And then it got infected."

"She got that for  _me_?" Cato asked, turning back to the glass to stare at her in wonder. He wanted to sob and he wanted to kiss her and he wanted to shake her for taking such a stupid risk.

But instead, he just shook his head. "Sometimes I think she's got to be the dumbest smart person I know."

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They wouldn't let them see each other, they were told, until their interviews the next night, so that all of Panem could witness their romantic reunion on live television. But she was sneaky and he was stubborn, and she slipped out of recovery late in the evening. Cato, who had expected nothing less from her, was waiting just outside the doors to the medical wing, and he caught her as she threw herself into his arms.

"What were you thinking?!" he cried as he buried his face in her hair. "With that stunt with 10! You could have been killed!"

"But I wasn't," she said breathlessly. "And anyway, if I hadn't done anything  _you_  would have been killed."

"God. Dammit." The voice was unfamiliar, and they broke off from each other to see a woman in a skintight pencil skirt and sky high heels, who was holding a clipboard. "Who was supposed to be watching her to make sure she didn't escape?" she called over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry ma'am," said a Peacekeeper gruffly. Cato almost laughed out loud. It was the same man from the hovercraft. "I'll escort her back to recovery."

But the woman sighed with exasperation. "Oh forget it, the damage is already done. They've seen each other. But you two," she said turning to point accusingly, "had better put on a good show tomorrow night. Make the audience think this little encounter never happened." Then, with a click of her heels she spun around and walked away

Cato looked over at the Peacekeeper, who gave him a smirk and a nod. "Come on," he said, grabbing Finch by the hand.

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"What the-?" Brutus said as they entered the District 2 apartment. "You two aren't supposed to-"

"They already know we saw each other," Cato cut him off, still dragging Finch by the hand. "It's fine. No one's gonna come looking for her." And then he slammed his bedroom door, shutting out the world so it was just the two of them.

He gathered her into his arms and kissed her fiercely.

"Cato," she said panted against his mouth, her hands on his chest.

"Finch," he moaned, pressing his lips to hers over and over.

"Cato," she gasped again.

"Finch."

"No,  _Cato_ ," she said, pushing on his chest and tearing her mouth away from his. "Too much, it's too much. Slow down." She was trying to catch her breath.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, letting go of her and stepping back. "Oh god, I forgot about your cut! Did I hurt it?"

"No, it's fine. Just a little sore. But I…" she grew shy all of a sudden. "I've never...you know. And I don't know if I'm ready...yet. I'm sorry."

He blinked in surprise. "Don't be sorry. We don't have to do that. That's not why I brought you here."

"Oh. It's not?" She sounded a little disappointed.

"No! I mean, don't get me wrong, I would in a heartbeat if you wanted to, but, no, no, that's not why I brought you here. I just want to be with you."

"Oh. Ok." She was smiling now. "But I didn't really get to shower like you did. I mean they washed my hair and gave me a sponge bath but I still feel dirty. And I hate this," she tugged at the paper gown they'd put her in and then turned toward the door. "I'll just go up to my room real fast and-"

"No, don't go!" he said desperately, grasping her hand and tugging. "Just shower here." Finch gave him a surprised look and he seemed to catch himself. "Unless you'd rather go back to your room. I'm sorry. Is this too much? Am I making you uncomfortable?"

Finch wanted to laugh. He was trying so hard to rein himself in. "It's fine," she said, placing a hand on his arm and standing on tiptoe to kiss him. "You're not making me uncomfortable. I want to be with you too. I'll shower here. I just don't have anything to wear."

"I can help you with that," he whispered as the corner of his mouth quirked up.

Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from his bathroom with clean skin and wet hair, clad in a pair of his boxers and one of his t shirts.

"I used your toothbrush," she said shyly. "I hope you don't mind. And your deodorant." She sniffed herself. "I smell like a man."

"Want some cologne too?" he teased. She looked sheepish. "I'm kidding," he said, gazing at her tenderly. "Of course I don't mind. Now come here." He lifted the blankets of his bed so she could slide in beside him.

"Can I see it?" he asked once she was settled.

"My cut?"

"Yeah."

She pulled her shirt up to expose her ribs and lifted her bandage. Cato's heart seized up at the sight of the wound, which, though now free of infection and stitched up, looked deep and painful.

"Oh Finch…" he breathed, tracing it gently with his fingers. He slid himself down the bed and replaced his fingers with his lips. She shivered as he trailed featherlight kisses from one end of the wound to the other, stroking the skin beneath it with his thumb.

When he was finished, he replaced the bandage and pulled the hem of the shirt back down. "I love you," he whispered as he looked up at her.

"I love you too," she whispered back, placing her hand on his cheek. There were tears in her eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"You almost killed yourself for me. And for nothing, because the twist….What if we'd been five minutes earlier?" she wailed. "You could have been dead!"

"Shh, it's ok," he soothed, sliding back up to take her in his arms. "It's ok. Because we  _weren't_  five minutes earlier. We're here. Now. And that's all that matters."

They didn't speak anymore that night. Instead, they kissed every inch of each other's faces, softly and slowly. When they were finished Finch rested her head on Cato's chest, where she could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong and comforting. And as she fell asleep, she breathed in the smell of iron.

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"Young lady!" Prince exclaimed, when she pattered into her apartment the next morning, barefoot and wearing Cato's boxers and shirt. "What has come over you? What will people think if it gets out that you're wearing his underwear?"

"Oh I'm sorry," she said irritably. "Would you rather I have left these downstairs and come back up here naked? Because I can arrange for that." And she started to pull up on the hem of the t shirt, exposing her stomach.

Prince gasped and sputtered and flounced off.

She turned to look at Rush, who was eyeing her thoughtfully. "Are you gonna lecture me too?" she asked as she settled the shirt back around her thighs

"No. You're a big girl. You do what you want."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm just wondering how you did it."

Finch frowned. "Did what? Won the games?"

"No. Got that boy to fall head over heels in love with you. Don't get me wrong. You're a cute enough little thing. But he was known for being a manwhore back in 2. And the more primped and processed the girl, the better. I wouldn't exactly have pegged you as his type."

"Yeah well it turns out that the way to his heart is through his brain." Rush looked surprised, and she shrugged. "Who knew, right?"

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"Alright," said Fascinia as she finished adjusting the folds of Finch's gown for the umpteenth time. "Remember to act like you haven't seen him since the hovercraft took you out of the arena. You should run across the stage and fling yourself at him."

Finch looked down at her simple, white, one-shouldered gown, which was gathered at her waist with a gold belt. It was beautiful, and it made her feel like a Greek goddess, but it wasn't exactly conducive to running and flinging oneself around.

So when they called her out, she made her way slowly and gracefully to the center stage where Cato stood waiting for her, lifting her skirt just a bit, and stopped when she was a few inches from him, smiling up at him shyly.

"Took you long enough," he whispered teasingly.

"I didn't want to fall on my face like I did at my reaping."

He threw his head back and let out a short bark of a laugh, but when he looked back down at her, his expression was so tender it shocked the breath from her lungs. He took her face in his hands and she grasped the lapels of his jacket and they smiled into each other's mouths as they kissed.

The crowd went wild.

Caesar eventually got the two of them seated and convinced the audience to quiet down.

"Soooo you two….tell us. How did this whole thing between you come about?"

Cato, who had trained for years to take his place as a Victor, quickly realized that Finch was overwhelmed by the attention, and delved into the story of how her father had saved Brutus's life. "I didn't want to help her at first, but Brutus insisted," he finished up.

"And Finch, did you know that he was in love with you?"

 _Just look at me_  Cato had said to her that morning before they'd separated.  _If you get nervous, just look at me. Pretend it's just you and me and Caesar_.

"No," she said, smiling up at Cato, who had laid an arm comfortingly behind her shoulders. "I thought we were just friends, and then we had an argument a few days before the games, and after that I was terrified of him."

"And what was the argument about?"

"That's between me and Cato," she said slyly, working her way into the interview. But the truth was she didn't really know the answer herself. She didn't understand what had prompted him to treat her so badly just before the scoring sessions.

When Caesar asked why he didn't run off to find Finch and ally himself with her right away, Cato explained that he figured if he stayed with the Careers he could keep them away from her, just like Peeta had tried to do with Katniss.

"And at your pre-games interview," Caesar said, "you didn't let on at all how you felt about her. In fact, if I recall, you made yourself sound like a complete cad."

Cato laughed. "Well I didn't want to bring attention to her. You know, paint a target on her back."

The two of them had not been given the opportunity to review footage or commentary of the games, and they'd been so busy reveling in each other's presence the night before that they hadn't really discussed their individual experiences in the arena, so much of it came as a surprise to them, and their reactions were genuine.

For Cato it was especially uncomfortable, and he felt wave after wave of self-loathing and guilt wash over him as the days played out onscreen. In the arena he'd been so worried about Finch that it had been easy to desensitize himself from his own violence and the lives he'd taken. And then he'd been able to further push off dealing with it in the joy of his reunion with her the night before. But now...now he had no choice but to watch himself shed the blood of other children and he hated himself. Even worse, what did Finch think of him? How did she feel about this? He could hear her gasping softly beside him in horror as she watched the bloodbath, and when he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, her skin was a sickly green shade.

He wanted to put his hands over his ears and squeeze his eyes shut. He wanted to be anywhere but here. But they could do nothing but sit there and watch, and, though she could fall apart on live tv if she chose, as a Career, Cato had to hold it together, to act as though this all fazed him very little.

He focused on trying to comfort Finch, slipping his hand between her body and the loveseat so he could rub soothing circles over her back, murmuring softly into her hair so that the mic couldn't pick it up that he was sorry, that he wouldn't have done it if he'd felt like he had a choice but that the thought of her dying in that arena had propelled him forward.

The audience, unable to hear what he was saying, but enamored with watching a brutal career fuss over an innocent girl who had escaped the arena without technically killing anyone, oohed and aahed.

When they showed him rolling his eyes as Glimmer cuddled up to him his heart dropped into his stomach, and again, he worried about what Finch would think. But it was obvious that he was only tolerating the girl from 1's attentions, and Finch squeezed his hand to let him know it was ok, she understood.

He fell in love with her all over again when he watched her sprint across the clearing at the sound of his agony, but he tensed and swallowed hard during the part where she encountered 10 as he lay unconscious, and then he facepalmed when she hit him in the crotch with her knife. "Your follow-through, Finch," he scolded quietly. "Or should I say lack thereof."

"I know, I know," she said, rolling her eyes.

When he pulled out the lock of her hair, Finch completely forgot about the audience. "Where did you get that?" she asked, turning to him in surprise.

Cato looked down at his lap. "That day, I think it was the second one, when I cut your hair off with my knife and then Brutus made me apologize the next time. I threw it in the corner. I remembered it the morning of the games." He was rewarded with an impulsive kiss on the lips that had the audience cheering madly, which, in turn, made her pull back immediately as she remembered where she was, her cheeks bright red.

Finch gasped when they showed his reaction to the explosion at the Career camp.

"I thought you'd accidentally set it off and killed yourself," he whispered, squeezing her hand.

But it was her turn to squeeze his hand when they showed Clove's death, and she could tell that it was shame that made him hang his head as he sat beside her on the loveseat, shame that he had abandoned Clove when she needed him.

By the time they'd moved on to Thresh's death, the two of them had switched roles entirely, with Finch doing her best to prop Cato up as subtly as possible while he struggled to keep up his facade as the ruthless Career. He had not been sorry at the time of Thresh's death, but as he watched himself slice open the boy's abdomen, he fought to bite back the cry of anguish that rose up from his throat and threatened to burst through his closed lips. It was Finch's hand in his, her fingers running back and forth across his palm, that kept him in check.

She squeezed his hand reassuringly when they showed his conversation with Peeta. "That was very compassionate," she whispered. "What you did for Peeta at the end."

He snorted. "Not really, considering I'm the one who injured him in the first place."

To the audience it sounded detached and dismissive, but Finch could hear the guilt behind it, and she was beginning to realize just how much of a toll the games had taken on his emotional well-being.

He was momentarily distracted from his pain by the scene of his and Finch's encounter in the arena, just before the announcement declaring them both victors, but as soon as the interview was over and he was offstage, he ran to the nearest bathroom and knelt over the toilet, trying to expel his guilt and self-loathing from his body. Nothing came up, but he continued to shudder and heave over the bowl until he felt her cool hand on his forehead and she tugged his shoulders, urging him to sit beside her on the marble floor, their backs against the wall.

"Eight people," he said, his voice shaky, his head in his hands. "I killed eight people. And Clove. It's my fault!" A single sob escaped from his heaving chest, and he brought his fist up to his mouth, closing his teeth over his knuckles until he drew blood.

When Finch pried his hand from his mouth and drew his head down into her lap he lost it and sobbed into the fabric of her gown, his face pressed against her thigh. She put an arm over his shoulders and hovered over him, running her fingers through his hair and pressing kisses to the back of his head. "I love you," she whispered over and over again until his sobs died down, first to whimpers and then to hiccups. "I love you."

Eventually, he pushed himself up off of her and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

"Come on," Finch said, standing and helping him up off the floor. "Let's get you home where I can take care of you."

As they left the bathroom, Prince hurried over to them, his face stern with disapproval. "You two were in there for almost an hour! Do you have any idea how impr-"

"Shut the fuck up Prince!" Finch cut him off, her eyes molten with anger. "Make yourself useful for once and just get us home. Jesus Christ!"

Her tone was so fierce it pulled the escort up short, and he stared at her in shock for a few seconds.

"Now!" she demanded, and he scampered off to tell their driver to pull around to pick them up.

And then she turned back to Cato and the two of them huddled together just inside the back door, completely oblivious to the presence of Plutarch Heavensbee, who stood at the end of the hallway, studying them thoughtfully with his head cocked to one side.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finch's homecoming outfit: http://worldinsidepictures.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/DA-7.jpg

Cato fell into a restless sleep sometime after two in the morning, but within a couple of hours he was awake and sobbing again.

Finch could tell he'd had some kind of nightmare, but she didn't know what to do. She held him and murmured that she loved him but he was inconsolable.

Eventually, she realized he needed more help than she could offer, and she went to wake up Brutus.

"I thought something like this might happen," he said, and opened his nightstand drawer to retrieve a bottle of pills.

"You did?"

"Yeah. It happens to all of us."

"So you're gonna give him some of those?" Finch pointed at the bottle. "What will they do?"

"They'll basically make him not care about anything and they'll help him sleep. They'll calm him down. Don't worry," he said when he saw the concern on her face. "This is a temporary fix. Just to help him rest. We'll start on a long-term solution soon. Hopefully without drugs."

Brutus was able to wrest Cato's fists from his hair and get him to down two of the pills and a glass of water, and within thirty minutes, Cato's sobs had died down to intermittent hiccups.

"He'll get sleepy soon," Brutus said, and stood up from the edge of the bed to leave. He stopped when he got to the doorway and turned around to face Finch. He looked sad, as though he wanted to burst into tears. As though seeing Cato like this was just as upsetting to him as it was to her. "You're good for him," he said. "I'm glad this whole...thing...happened with you two." And then he closed the door and was gone.

She turned to Cato, whose puffy lids were beginning to grow heavy over his red eyes. He looked miserable and her heart broke for him. "Come here," she whispered as she lay down and opened her arms wide. He was asleep within minutes, and everything about him felt heavy and sluggish. His breathing. His head on her chest. The arm he'd slung over her hip. The leg he'd thrown over both of hers.

Finch shifted beneath him so she could breathe a little easier, and eventually she, too, fell into a restless sleep.

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She woke to voices outside Cato's door. "I said leave them alone," Brutus was growling.

"But it's improper," came Paris's haughty voice. "And it's almost noon."

"Fuck your improper. After everything they've been through, they're more grown up than you I can tell you that much. Tell Plutarch's assistant I'll call him back once he's awake."

There was an indignant huff and the _click click_ of Paris's boots echoing on the marble floor of the hallway.

Once the sound had faded, Brutus knocked softly.

"Come in," Finch called, and he opened the door and peeked in.

"He's still out I take it."

"Yeah." Finch was covered in sweat. The sun was beating down on her through the window and she felt stifled by Cato's weight. He had shifted onto her even more and she was finding it difficult to wriggle out from beneath him.

"Here," Brutus said, and came over to lift Cato off of her so she could slip out easily. The older man looked down at him with a sigh. "I had them leave you a plate of food," he said. "And the coffee's still on. Not sure if you drink it, but..."

"I don't usually, but I feel like I could use some. Rough night. And morning."

"Well, no offense, but you look like you could use some too."

"Thanks," she said sarcastically, but she couldn't help but grin at him.

"I spoke with your father this morning."

"How?"

"Rush had one of the mayor's people get him a cell phone."

"One of the mayor's people?" she asked in shock.

"Yes. You're very important now," he said, but there was hint of disdain in his voice. She wasn't quite sure who it was aimed it, but she knew it wasn't her. "You'll find you can pretty much have and do whatever you want. As long as it doesn't interfere with the Capitol agenda."

"How is he?" she asked, choosing to ignore his last statement for the time being.

"Overjoyed that he's getting his daughter back of course."

"They've had enough to eat?"

"Yeah."

"I wonder how," she said, more to herself than to Brutus.

"Well the night you told Cato about how you'd been providing for them, he came and told me. So I've had a guy drop off a crate of food for them every week."

"You _have_?" She couldn't help it. She rushed at Brutus and threw her arms around him. "Thank you! Thank you _so so much_!"

He tensed up and then patted her back awkwardly. "You're a sweaty little thing," he said with a grimace.

"It's not all mine," she said defensively as she pulled back. "At least half of it is Cato's. Wait," she panicked. "Did you tell my dad that Cato and I are sleeping together?! I mean we're not...you know… doing _that_." Her cheeks turned red. "We're just _literally_ sleeping together."

Brutus chuckled. "No. I didn't tell him. It's not my business."

She felt a rush of relief. "Thank you!"

"You're not gonna hug me again are you?" he asked, backing up a step.

"No."

"Alright. I'm gonna try to wake him. See if I can get him up and get something in his stomach."

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Fifteen minutes later, Cato sat down heavily across from her at the dining room table, his eyes puffy but dry, his tear stains from the night before evident on his cheeks. An Avox set a plate that had been kept warm for him down at his place. He didn't look at Finch. He didn't say anything to her. He just picked up his fork and began to eat mechanically.

It was disturbing.

But what really scared her was that he didn't even notice that they'd served him waffles with maple syrup.

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She returned to her apartment to shower and prepare for her homecoming in 5 the next day.

Fascinia's team exfoliated and moisturized her entire body and gave her a facial and a pedicure and manicure.

It drove Finch nuts. "You just did all of this yesterday," she complained. "My nails don't have a single chip in them."

"Yes, but we have to have you looking perfect for the cameras tomorrow. And besides, this shade goes better with your homecoming outfit."

Fascinia clucked her tongue as she robed Finch in the dress she had designed for the occasion. "It's going to have to be taken in. Or we'll just belt it like we did your gown. That's what we'll do. You lost a lot of weight in that arena young lady," she said sternly.

As though Finch had done it on purpose.

Honestly. She liked Fascinia, but sometimes she was so dense Finch wanted to slap her.

"Ok, all done," her stylist said, and turned her toward the mirror. "Do you like it?"

She had put her in a short olive green shirt-dress made of silk and a suede belt in the same shade. And then she slipped her feet into flat braided leather sandals, mussed her hair, and stained her lips a deserty rose color. "And put these on," she said, handing her a pair of matte gold-rimmed aviators. "Oh, you look so good. So aloof and effortless. Like you just don't give a shit."

 _That's because I_ _don't_ _give a shit_ Finch thought.

But she humored Fascinia anyway. "I love it," she said. And the truth was, that if it she wasn't so heartsick, she probably _would_ have loved it, just as she had the copper dress from the parade.

"Oh I'm so glad! And I designed a bunch of other outfits for you too! You're the most famous girl in Panem right now, and you have to look the part you know. Wait until you see what we've done!" She snapped her fingers and her team rushed to bring in dresses and rompers in lightweight fabrics and shades of ivory and olive and rose, as well as several pairs of sandals and sunglasses and a few belts and slouchy hobo bags and even a leather cuff for her wrist. It was the perfect wardrobe for late summer and early fall in the desert, and as she eyed the collection objectively, Finch knew that she would be the envy of all of the girls at school. For her fame. For her beautiful clothes. For her newfound wealth. And of course, for Cato.

And four months ago, Finch would have smirked at this. She would have reveled in it. She probably would have made a few nasty comments to Lacey Smalls and Gretchen Nichols and all those other bitches. Maybe she would have even toyed with Garrett Cooper just for fun.

But as she surveyed her new wardrobe, all she could do was worry about how Cato was doing three floors below her and wonder if the bright and inquisitive boy she'd fallen in love with was lost forever.

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Rush told her they were going down to the second floor for dinner, and she was glad. Not just because she wanted to see how Cato was doing, but because even though it had always just been her, Rush, Fascinia, and occasionally Prince in the apartment, she could feel in her bones how empty the rest of the Training Center was. It was eerie. Those apartments had been filled with other kids. Kids who were dead now. And so Finch, normally an introvert, shivered and felt the urge to be surrounded by as many people as possible.

When they arrived, Cato looked a little better. He was talking quietly to a man Finch had never seen. Well...not exactly talking. The man was asking him questions and Cato was responding with short, quiet answers, which the man then jotted down on a clipboard.

"Who is that?" she asked Brutus.

"Dr. Aurelius," Brutus said. "He's a psychiatrist and he'll be helping Cato out. He's traveling back to 2 with us tomorrow and he'll stay for a while. At least a few months. He'll come on tour with us too."

"Oh." Finch was relieved. "So this is the long-term solution you were talking about?"

"Yep."

"Do you think it will work? Do you think he'll be able to help him?"

"Well, I think in the short term he'll still be on meds, but Dr. Aurelius will wean him off of them over a period of a few weeks. And he'll help him. He helped me," Brutus said.

"And me," Rush added.

"He helped you both after your games?" It surprised Finch that these two gruff men had used the services of a psychiatrist.

"Well not right after," Brutus said. "Plutarch met him about six years ago or so, and he introduced us all to him. That was why Plutarch's assistant was calling this morning. To see when the doc should stop by. Most of us have seen him at some point or another. To deal with the aftermath that comes along with surviving the games."

"Most of you?"

"Yeah. Most of us victors."

"Speaking of that," Rush said. "How are _you_ doing with all of this?"

"It's awful," she said. "Seeing how this is affecting him." She nodded toward Cato.

"Ok, but how are _you_ doing with this. You yourself," Rush said.

"I...am fine." Finch said. Because she was pretty sure she was. "Yeah, I'm fine."

But she felt their eyes on her, Brutus's and Rush's, as they studied her. And then she glanced up to see them exchange a look of deep concern with one another.

xxxxxxxxxx

Early the next morning she said good-bye to Cato, and it was awful, but not for the reason she had thought it would be.

She had imagined they'd cling to each other and whisper _I'll miss you_.

But he just looked at her with dull eyes, his pupils huge from the sedatives they had him on, his speech a little slower than normal. "Bye Finch," he said quietly. "I'll see you in a couple of months."

Her heart broke. Something was so, so wrong.

She burst into tears and threw her arms around him. "I'll miss you," she whispered.

But he didn't say anything in return, and he didn't kiss her or cling to her. He just stood there like a statue.

"Come on honey," a hoarse voice said, and Finch felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She turned, surprised to see Brutus standing behind her, looking again like he wanted to cry. "Go home and focus on your family. He'll be better by the tour."

xxxxxxxxxx

As they approached 5, Fascinia tried to erase the signs of her sorrow with eye drops and concealer and some kind of de-puffing gel, but her success was limited. "Good thing we have the sunglasses," she sighed. "Cheer up doll. You're gonna see your father and brothers soon."

Finch sniffled and shook herself. Fascinia was right. They would be so excited to see her. And she was excited to see them. She really was. Her joy was just overshadowed by her sorrow over Cato. _And maybe something else?_ she thought. But she couldn't quite figure out what that something else was, so she ignored it.

As she stepped off the train and onto the platform, her eyes went straight to her family, and her throat closed up. She wanted to sprint into their arms. But she was supposed to stand there and wave to the crowd for at least a minute. So she bit the inside of her lip to keep from crying, and silently thanked Fascinia for the sunglasses as she held her hand up in greeting.

The tears began to spill when she was about ten feet from them, and she leaned over her father while her brothers each clung to one of her sides. The four of them huddled with their heads together for a few minutes, bawling their eyes out. Then she kissed her father and turned to take first Gavin's and then Hyde's face into her hands and plant a kiss on their foreheads.

"I brought it back to you," she said to her father later that night, once they were settled around the dinner table. And she slipped her mother's copper band off of her right ring finger and held it out to him.

"You brought _you_ back to me," he said, taking it from her and placing it back on the chain he wore around his neck.

"With the help of Cato," Hyde piped up cheerfully.

"Yes," her father said. "That was really surprising. I gotta say Little Bird, never in a million years would I have pictured you with someone like _him_."

Finch looked down at her plate. She'd been worried about this, worried he'd disapprove. "Dad, you don't understand," she said hurriedly. "He's not like everyone thinks-"

"Well that's obvious," he said. He was smiling. "He shocked the entire nation. They love him here in 5. You should have heard them all yelling at the screens during those awful few minutes. As though if they all screamed loud enough and long enough it would somehow travel through the airwaves and straight into his brain. Lucky you were so successful at distracting him," he teased, and her brothers both giggled.

"Oh my god, _Dad_!" she burst out, her cheeks burning. "Can't you at least wait until tomorrow to start giving me a hard time?"

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School was awful. She didn't really have to go anymore if she didn't want. She was a Victor. Like Brutus had said, she could pretty much do whatever she felt like. But she just wanted some semblance of normalcy, of her past life, even if that meant returning to a place that didn't hold any fond memories for her.

But they all stared at her as though she were superhuman. And the girls all wanted to talk to her. Even Lacey. They sidled up to her at lunch, telling her that they loved her outfit and asking her question after question.

Did her cut hurt? Why didn't she have to wear her glasses anymore? Was she scared while she was in the arena? What was the Capitol like?

And, of course they wanted to know about Cato.

"Tell us everything. How did you guys fall in love with each other?" _Umm, I don't know. We just talked a lot when we trained together._

"What does he smell like?" _Cologne_ she lied _._ Because she thought saying _iron_ and sighing dreamily might just be a touch too weird.

"What do his arms feel like?" _Rocks_ she said.

"Don't you think it's so romantic that he killed people for you?"

"Ummm, no," They all stared at her, eyes blinking, mouths open. "I think it's horrible that any of us, including him, were in that situation to begin with."

No one said anything for a few seconds. And then one girl piped up. "What's he kiss like?"

She thought about that one for a minute. Their first kiss was heartwrenchingly painful, actually. Because they'd both been convinced it would also be their last. And the next time he'd kissed her, after he dragged her up to his room in nothing but her paper gown, her bare feet skittering over the cold marble floors to keep up with him, he'd completely overwhelmed her, literally taking her breath away until she thought she'd faint.

But later that night, after she'd showered and climbed into bed with him...she almost sighed out loud at the memory of it, and she could feel her eyes glazing over. She had felt both light and heavy at the same time when their mouths met. Like she was floating and sinking. Like she was drugged and out of it, and yet hyper-aware of every sensation. Like the cells of her body were both condensing in on themselves and breaking away into the atmosphere. Like she was absolutely content but wanted more at the same time. She had felt safe and loved and warm and he'd tasted like metal and she remembered the feel of his jaw under her fingers and the soft sounds their lips had made and how he had cupped the back of her head in one hand and placed his other against her neck and she was convinced she'd experienced heaven.

But that was too private to share. It was too intimate. So she just said "He's very sweet," and left it at that.

"Have you guys, you know... _done it_?" another girl asked, and the whole group leaned in toward her. Finch jerked her head back and blinked, startled.

"I'm not gonna answer that," she said with a glare.

"That means they have," one girl whispered, at the exact same time another one said "That means they haven't."

"Alright, alright, girls, that's enough. Leave Miss Crossley alone now," one of the teachers said, and Finch shot the woman a relieved glance.

But it wasn't just the girls. All of the boys stared at her too, though not one of them would approach her. They looked at her appreciatively, trying and failing to be discreet, and they ran their eyes over her face and down her body in her light, filmy dresses, and she realized that having the most famous boy in the nation call you beautiful and kiss you and almost sacrifice his life for yours on live television instantly made you attractive to just about every other straight male, even if they wouldn't have given you the time of day previously.

Even _Garrett fucking Cooper_ looked at her like she was some kind of goddess who'd come down from above to walk among all of them.

Finch didn't kid herself that all of this attention was for _her_. It was partly because she'd won the games, but she knew it was also because she had won the heart of the hottest, most ruthless, most unattainable Career.

And even though it was annoying, she couldn't really blame them. If some other random girl were in her place she too would probably look at her curiously and bite her tongue to hold back the questions she wanted to ask.

What bothered her was that not one of them seemed to realize what was so obvious to her. Twenty-two other children were dead because _she_ had lived. Twenty-two other families were grieving because of _her_. Cato was an absolute wreck because of the things he had done in that arena. Things he had done to save _her_ life.

And why? Why her? What was so special about her? Why was she so different from any of the other children who'd been reaped? Why had fate and Cato singled _her_ out?

Why not Rue, so pure and innocent? Why not Peeta, so sweet and good? Why not Thresh with his dimples and his warm laugh and his delight in the ridiculous? Why not Brigita with her kind eyes? Why not...why not...and her eyes landed on the face of the one person in that lunchroom who wasn't staring at her with awe. Trent Odom. Tate's seventeen-year-old brother. He watched her, just like the others, but his eyes were full of sorrow, a pure sorrow unmarred by blame or hatred or judgement.

It was too much. All of these eyes on her, none of them understanding. Not even Trent Odom. She looked around the room again. They were all staring at her and her body began to cave in on itself like an aluminum can, crushing her organs and expelling the breath from her lungs. The buzzing of their whispered conversations about her grew louder and louder, pressed in on her eardrums until they ached.

She had to get out of here. She had to get away from them all. She eyed the lunchroom doorway with relief, and stood, gasping desperately for air. Forty feet. Forty feet until freedom. But the room started to spin and her vision went spotty and her heart was pounding and she couldn't suck in enough oxygen.

And then, thank god, everything went black.


	12. Chapter 12

They drugged him for his homecoming. He was stoned out of his mind, and he raised his hand languidly in greeting as the crowd screamed and cheered for him. He didn't even react to the flurry of panties that the teenage girls and women lobbed onto the platform. Luckily, he came across as arrogant and bored, which was right in line with his reputation from before the games, so no one suspected anything.

But after his homecoming, Dr. Aurelius only gave him the drugs at night to help him sleep.

They watched him carefully that first day that they withheld the medication, bracing themselves for wailing and screaming and tears.

But he didn't do any of those things. Instead, he did everything he could to forget about his games.

He refused to go to the Academy. He wouldn't see Brutus or anyone else from his games or his training days. He lived in his new mansion in Victor's Village, but only because he didn't know where else to stay, and even if he bought or rented a different place, he'd be doing it with the money he'd won from his games, so it was all the same really.

And Finch. He loved her more than anything else in the world and he was glad she was alive. But he had killed eight people (nine if he counted Clove) for her sake, and though he didn't blame her one bit for his choices in the arena, he couldn't think of her without thinking of the things he'd done. So he folded up his hand-drawn map of the world and he slipped the lock of copper hair in between the layers and he stuffed it into the back of his bottom dresser drawer.

He saw Dr. Aurelius everyday, and he waited with dread for the psychiatrist to ask him why he was avoiding everything and everyone that had to do with his training and his games, but he didn't say a word about it. Instead, he helped Cato come up with a daily schedule to inject some peace and stability into his life.

Dr. Aurelius gave him some yoga videos and he found he liked them. They helped him relax. At first he was worried he wouldn't be able to stop his mind from racing back to his games as he held the poses, but he found that if he concentrated on perfecting his form and on the different sensations in his body, it was incredibly therapeutic.

He went running everyday too. He'd always liked the outdoors, but while he was at the Academy, he hadn't spent much time appreciating it. Now, as he jogged through the grass, he focused on the sounds and sights and smells, and just like with yoga, on the sensations in his body, and this, too, soothed his mind.

Dr. Aurelius gave him a black leather journal and encouraged him to write down any and all thoughts or feelings that he felt like putting out into the universe, but Cato wasn't particularly into this form of therapy, so the journal was left untouched.

"Let's try animal therapy too," the psychiatrist said, so he rescued a stray cat, a big orange one that he named Titus, and the two of them became best buddies. He spoiled him with tuna and milk and lots of scratches under the chin, and he found that Titus seemed to understand him, because whenever he was having a bad moment, one where he sat on the bathroom floor with his head in his hands trying not to vomit, the cat always appeared, purring and rubbing against his back, diverting his attention.

He was supposed to do something productive for society to help his self-esteem and sense of purpose, and at first he had a hard time figuring out what to do, but after talking with Dr. Aurelius, he decided to go back to the children's home where he'd lived for the first six years of his life.

It hadn't been a particularly warm environment, but it hadn't been a bad one either. In any case, it wasn't the Academy, and it was a way to give back.

He didn't recognize the woman who ran it (she must have been new), but he remembered the old cook and one of the teachers. "What do you want me to do?" he asked nervously after he arrived and introduced-or reintroduced-himself to the staff members.

"Well, how do you feel about helping them with their reading and their math?" the head instructor asked. "There's only three of us and we just can't give them all the attention they deserve."

Cato was uneasy. He wasn't good at reading or math, and here they were asking him to do just those things. He didn't really think he had anything to offer to begin with, and he certainly wasn't fit to help teach. It would be like the blind leading the blind. "I don't kn-" he started to say.

"The six and seven year olds are where we could really use the help," one of them said.

 _Six and seven year olds_. _I could do that_ he thought. A lot of them would have just learned their letters and numbers, and most of them probably read slowly. If he could even just help one or two of them learn to read or do addition and subtraction, he'd feel like he wasn't a complete waste of a human being. And they really were short-staffed, he knew that. The children's home generally held anywhere between one hundred and fifty to two hundred kids, ranging in age from newborns to age fourteen, when they left to go work in the quarries. Three instructors for all of those children…

"Ok," he said. "I'll do it."

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Within a week, he was glad he'd agreed. He spent at least four hours a day there, working with thirteen different children, sometimes in small groups and sometimes individually. He knew all their names and they knew him as Cato their tutor, rather than Cato the killer.

He'd been dismayed at first at how meager their supply of learning materials was. They had some flashcards and one box of ratty old picture books. So he took his blood money and he spent thousands and thousands of dollars on new books and other learning materials, not just for his little pack of ragamuffins, but for the entire place.

He helped the littler ones learn their letters by picking one each day and drawing the outline of it on a blank piece of paper for each of them. Then they all sat in a circle and colored in their letter and talked about all of the different words that began with that letter. At first it would start with Cato listing them off and enunciating the sound ( **Buh** -nana, he would say. **Bi** -cycle), but by the end of it, most of them would be able to contribute a word they had thought of, and they would draw pictures of things that started with the letter of the day on the backside of their piece of paper.

He played counting games with them. He'd spread six pieces of candy out on the table and tell whichever child he was working with to take away two. "Now how many are you left with?" he'd ask, and then he'd praise them when they counted _one, two, three four. Six minus two is four_. He'd ruffle their hair and give them one of the candies, and their eyes would grow wide because sugar was a rarity in the children's home.

He pulled the ones who had nailed their letters onto his lap and helped them as they read through the picture books, slowly and methodically. His favorite (although he knew better than to let on) was a little seven-year-old named Josten. She kicked her legs back and forth as she sounded out the words, her heels thumping against Cato's shins while he held the book so she could run her finger under whichever syllable she was concentrating on. When they were done, she asked him question after question, and sometimes he knew the answer and sometimes he didn't, but if he did he always responded thoroughly and patiently, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if this was what Finch had felt like with him.

One day, after he'd been back in 2 for a few weeks, he happened upon Josten as she defended herself from another one of the students he was working with, an especially clever boy named Dooley.

"I'm just telling you," he was saying heatedly to her.

"Well I don't care Dooley! Now leave me alone!"

"What's going on?" Cato asked her as Dooley huffed and stomped off.

"I'm writing a story," she said cheerfully, pressing the green crayon down onto the paper so hard that it broke in half. She chucked it onto the table and picked up a red crayon and kept right on. "About a little girl who doesn't have any parents but then she finds out that they gave her up when she was born because they were too poor to feed her but then they get rich and they come find her and take her back to their mansion. And she gets a lot of pretty dresses and a dog and a pony and cupcakes everyday for breakfast."

"That sounds like a nice story," Cato said, hiding his amusement at her method of wish fulfillment. "Why was Dooley giving you a hard time about it?"

"He says my words are spelled wrong, but I don't care. There's too much in here," she said, tapping her skull, "and I just have to get it out. I don't have time to stop and make sure I spell it all right. I know what it says and that's all that matters."

Cato looked down at her paper. She had scrawled her words out rapidly (at least for a seven-year-old), but he could read and understand what she'd written, even though a lot of it was misspelled.

"You're right," he said affectionately, and patted her on the head. "That's all that matters."

xxxxxxxxxx

"I'm doing pretty good I think," he told Dr. Aurelius at their next meeting. "I have a routine. I have stuff to look forward to. I'm productive. I have Titus."

"Good," the psychiatrist said, "because I think it's time for you to start processing the games."

Cato blanched. "What? Why? I'm doing good."

"Yes, you are. These are all good things and you should keep doing them. But underneath the surface, you've still got some incredibly heavy baggage, and all of this other stuff will only distract you from it for so long. And you have the tour in six weeks. You can't just ignore what happened until then, or it'll all come crashing down on you at once. Now that you're in a relatively good place, it's time for us to get to the difficult stuff."

Cato knew Dr. Aurelius was right, but he was terrified. The tour was looming over him, and as much as he wanted to, he couldn't just bury his head in the sand.

"Don't worry. We'll start slow. We'll talk about your experience at the Academy, from the time you started to the time you left for the Capitol. And then we'll talk about your games."

So they started at the beginning, and before their hour was up, Cato had told Dr. Aurelius all about Rocky and how he'd beaten him up for calling him stupid. "I was a dick to him," he said with shame in his voice. "For years afterward."

xxxxxxxxxx

That night, he went to bed without taking his sedatives.

"You may have nightmares," Dr. Aurelius said. "Just call me if it becomes too much."

He lay in bed, trying to keep his eyes open so he wouldn't dream about the other tributes he'd killed, but eventually sleep won out. And he did have nightmares, but they weren't about his games. They were about Rocky.

When he woke he tried to relax and go back to sleep, but he couldn't stop thinking about all the awful things he'd ever said and done to Rocky while they were at the Academy. He felt like Josten; there was too much swirling around in his head.

 _I have to get it out_ he realized. _Like her_. So he got out of bed and he went downstairs and he took the black leather journal off of the kitchen counter and he rummaged around until he found a pen and then he sat down at the counter and he wrote as fast as he could. It was an apology. An account of all the wrongs he could remember. An explanation, or at least an attempt at an explanation, for his actions. He didn't bother to read back over any of it. He just let the words flow out onto the paper.

When he was done, he found he was sleepy again, so he stumbled upstairs and into bed and he was out cold within a couple of minutes.

When he went to see Dr. Aurelius the next day, he brought his journal along with him and handed it to the psychiatrist so he could read it. "Don't laugh though," he said. "I thought about not showing you, but I figured it would help."

Dr. Aurelius looked up from the page, confused. "Why would I laugh?"

"You know, it probably doesn't make any sense. Who knows if I even spelled half the words right. Or if those are even coherent thoughts."

"Well, it's certainly stream of consciousness. But often that's what therapeutic journaling is. But it's very clear, very articulate. Easy to understand. And I only see a few spelling mistakes-which can probably be chalked up to the speed with which you wrote."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really." And the doctor handed him back the journal. "Keep this up. It's very healthy. And I expect as we get into your games you'll find you have many more apologies inside your head, demanding to be let out."

Dr. Aurelius was right. Now that he was completely off of his sedatives and had begun to discuss his training and games during therapy, Cato was was plagued by nightmares on a regular basis. It was awful. Sometimes he woke paralyzed and in a cold sweat and sometimes he woke screaming and sometimes he woke crying, but each time Titus would jump up onto his chest and sniff at his face until he lifted his arms and ran his hands over the cat's silky fur.

Once he'd calmed down a bit, he'd reach for his journal and pen and scribble out his thoughts and feelings and apologies, and then he was usually able to go back to sleep. That next afternoon, he'd talk out what he'd written with Dr. Aurelius and the two of them would process through his guilt.

It was tough and he had some pretty bad days, but like he'd told the psychiatrist, he also had a sense of purpose and a routine. He had Titus to look after, and his group of kids who expected to see him every day, so he worked through it.

And then, one night, as he was writing about the girl from 8, the kill Clove had accused him of stealing, he was seized with the overwhelming urge to share all of his thoughts and feelings with Finch. It hit him like a train. He missed her terribly, so much so that tears welled up in his eyes. _How is she doing?_ he wondered. _Is she ok?_ He'd been so self-absorbed. He had no idea if she was happy back in 5 with her dad or her brothers or if she was struggling with the trauma from the games, just like he was.

He'd find a way to get ahold of her, he decided. Tomorrow. She probably had a cell phone, just like he did. And he didn't know her number, but he bet Rush knew it and Brutus probably knew Rush's, so...and then he groaned. _Brutus_. He'd just dropped his mentor like a bad habit. He'd ignored all of the older man's phone calls and knocks at his door.

 _How fucking ungrateful_ Cato thought. Brutus was the closest thing he'd ever had to family.

xxxxxxxxxx

He was shaking with nerves as he knocked on his mentor's front door the next morning, unsure of what kind of reception he'd receive.

But Brutus looked glad to see him when he opened the door.

"Hi Brutus," he said shyly, and then he hung his head. "I'm...sor-"

"Every Victor handles it in their own way," Brutus cut him off. "You don't owe me an apology. You didn't do anything wrong. " Cato looked up and saw nothing but understanding in his mentor's eyes.

Instead of making him feel better, it made it worse, and before he knew what was happening, he was bawling. _God would it never end_? He'd had no idea he could cry _so fucking much_.

Brutus hauled him off of the doorstep and into the house and gave him a bear hug, patting his back roughly. "It's ok son. It's ok."

When he was done, Cato pulled back and wiped his nose and eyes on his sleeve. He was embarrassed, but Brutus clearly didn't judge him for his emotional display.

It confused Cato. At the Academy, all of the instructors, including Brutus, had taught the students to be tough, to put aside pain, to view crying as a weakness. And now that he'd won the games Brutus was nothing but compassionate. Soft, almost.

 _It doesn't make any sense_ Cato thought. _How can he be like he is at the Academy, how can he teach kids to be ruthless murderers...and then be like_ _this_ _once they've won?_

"What are you thinking Cato?"

Cato looked up at his mentor. "Why do you do it? Why do you mentor tributes and then…?" He trailed off, not sure how to articulate.

But Brutus understood. He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "I don't want to. I fucking hate it. So does Enobaria and Lyme and all of us who've ever won. The instructors who didn't get selected to volunteer when they were younger...like Marcus...none of them understand. So we don't say anything to them. But we don't know what else to do other than just...keep doing what we've always done. Someone's gonna get reaped anyway, right? Even if we all refuse to teach at the Academy. Snow will make us mentor anyway. Better for it to be an eighteen-year-old, I guess. Better that than a little twelve-year-old." He looked up at Cato. "And I don't think what we do is right. But I don't think it's as bad as I used to...right after I won. I used to think, oh my god I'm a monster. This whole training for the games and volunteering...we're monsters. The people from the outlying districts are right. But then, the more I got to know the Victors from those districts...they understood. They told me we aren't monsters. They said it's not any better...Haymitch and Chaff and Johanna and all of them...they said it's not any better. They don't feel any less guilty about their games. They struggle too. The one thing I _do_ feel like I have control over is my tribute. Why do you think I taught you to be efficient and cold and ruthless?"

It hit Cato for the first time. "So I would just kill the other tributes quickly. So I wouldn't make them suffer."

Brutus nodded. "Exactly."

"Finch...is she ok?"

"Rush says she's doing better. It hit her hard right after she returned to 5. Survivor's guilt, they call it. They've got a psychiatrist there working with her. And Rush is good for her. He only killed one person during his games you know. And it was because _they_ attacked _him_ head on. He just outlasted everyone else. There wasn't even a fight between him and the last tribute left standing. She just died of dehydration, miles away from him. But he struggled with survivor's guilt. So he can relate to Finch. She can lean on him. And you should lean on us too. I understand why you avoided us all at first. But it's not good to be alone. And honestly, you'll find that no one else really understands you except other Victors."

Cato nodded. "Yeah. Ok. I will. But I don't know if I'm ready yet to go back to the Academy and train the other kids and mentor and all that."

"You're not ready," Brutus said. "I can tell you're not. That's ok. There's plenty of us. We don't need you right now."

"But someday I'm gonna have to be ready."

"I truly hope that's not the case."

It took Cato by surprise, and he jerked his head back. "What?"

Brutus shrugged. "I hope you never have to mentor anyone. Not sure how realistic that hope is. But it's what I want anyway."

Cato groaned. "Finch. She's the only living Victor other than Rush. They're gonna make her mentor next year."

"We'll all help her get through it Cato. I promise."

"Do you have her phone number?"

"No. But I have Rush's. And her dad's. Which one you want?"

"Rush's please," he said immediately.

Brutus laughed. "You nervous about talking to her dad?"

Cato shrugged. "I've never met him and...I don't know what he thinks of me or if he approves of me."

"Brutal, Bloody Cato," Brutus teased. "Afraid of his girlfriend's father."

"Shut up," Cato growled, punching his mentor in the arm. "I'm not afraid, I'm just...I respect him, ok? Enough to be nervous about talking to him for the first time."

Brutus ruffled his hair affectionately. "Well then I raised you right."


	13. Chapter 13

She didn't go back to school after that awful first day.

Instead, she took to her bed and slept for three straight days, until Gavin woke her and told her their house in Victor's Village was ready and they had moved everything except her personal items. "We need to know what stuff you want us to box up sissy," he said. "You gotta get up."

"Fine," she sighed. She stared up at the ceiling and pushed her hair out of her face.

"Are you sad?" he asked, as he crawled in next to her and nestled in the crook of her arm.

She thought about lying, but when she looked at Gavin's face she knew better. He had a keen intuition. He already knew the answer. "Yes."

"But why? You're alive. And we have so much good food now...you have to try it. And our new house is huge. Me and Hyde each get our own bedroom _and_ bathroom. And you have your own bathroom too. And we have a swimming pool!" Finch smiled at his attempt to cheer her up and ruffled his hair but her heart wasn't in it, and he could tell. "And there's Cato," he whispered. "He loves you. So why are you sad?"

"You're right," she said with resolve, and sat up. "I shouldn't be sad."

"But you still are," Gavin pointed out.

She grabbed an empty box from the hallway and began to dump her new clothes in it. "Well then, I'll just have to fake it til I make it, won't I?"

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Their new house was beautiful. It was a two-story adobe with cool, white walls and an open airy feel. The staircase and second floor hallway, which overlooked the massive foyer, were graced with delicate, black wrought iron railings.

There was a massive pool out back and a desert garden out front with a fountain in it.

Finch's room had a walk-in closet and a king-sized bed, and her bathroom had a shower _and_ a deep, sunken tub that was big enough for two people.

Hyde and Gavin circled around her anxiously, monitoring her reaction to everything and insisting that she hang up all of her clothing, when really she just wanted to crawl beneath the white cotton sheets of her new bed and shut out the world. "We'll help you put everything away," they volunteered.

Finch didn't have the heart to refuse, so she patiently hung up each article of clothing on the cedar hangers they brought to her and pretended to care about which shelf her new bags should rest on in her closet, and then she sat on the edge of her tub as they unpacked the boxes of lotions and scrubs and soaps and candles that Fascinia had sent her home with.

"Thank you," she said when they were finished. "You've been very helpful. My little worker bees."

"Let's go in the pool now!" Hyde said.

"None of us can swim," Finch pointed out.

"It's only four feet deep," Hyde said. "We're gonna get someone to teach us to swim, and for now Gavin just sits on the steps. I can walk around in it. So can you. It feels funny but it's awesome."

"You two don't have bathing suits."

"Yes we do. We went to town yesterday while you were sleeping and bought some. Please Finch, please come in with us…"

"Yes, please!" Gavin added.

Finch had no desire to swim, but she'd run out of excuses and they were so excited.

"Alright, let me put mine on," she said. It was a skimpy ivory two-piece crochet-looking thing that Fascinia had picked out, and she was embarrassed at how much skin it showed. She'd never worn a bathing suit before...surely it should cover more than this. But she remembered seeing bathing suits in the magazines in the Capitol, and this was pretty much standard. So she sighed and wrapped a fluffy white towel around herself.

When she emerged from her room, Gavin took her hand and made her stop and admire the paintings on the walls and the vases and mirrors and rugs scattered throughout the house.

"They had a famous interior designer decorate," Hyde said as he trailed behind them.

"He's from the Capitol," Gavin added. "We got to meet him yesterday. Dad told him you weren't feeling well and he was disappointed, so he's coming back tomorrow to see how you like it. He says it's all authentic."

"You don't even know what authentic means," Hyde said scornfully.

"Yes I do! I asked Dad and he says in this case it means that it looks like it belongs in a desert house."

"It's all lovely," Finch said. And she meant it. The two of them were so happy it was hard for at least a little bit of it not to rub off on her. She tried to look at everything through their eyes, and it cheered her up. But just a smidge.

Her father looked up at her with concern as they passed him. "How do you like it?" he asked, but Finch could tell that what he really meant was _How are you_?

"It's fine," she said and gave him a weak smile. _I'm fine_.

"Really?" he said. He looked worried.

She opened her mouth to answer, but Hyde cut in. "Did you notice Dad's new chair?"

Finch gasped. His old rickety metal wheel chair had been replaced with a sleek, black motorized one. He no longer had to use his arms to wheel himself around, but could control everything with a tiny touchscreen on the right armrest.

 _Oh my god_ she thought with genuine happiness. _That's two good things to come out of this. We don't have to worry about food anymore and dad has a new chair_.

"Oh Dad!" she exclaimed, and he grinned at her, appeased for the time being with regard to her emotional state.

"Well, go enjoy the pool," he said.

It was daunting, and Finch chose to simply sit on the steps with Gavin and sip iced tea while she swished her legs around in the water. Hyde was a little more adventurous and walked slowly around and around the pool.

"Now don't you two brag about any of this at school," she admonished. "We're lucky to have so much when so many other people hardly have anything. Do you understand?"

"Yes," they both said, and nodded solemnly.

"Did Dad already say all of that to you?"

"Yeah," Hyde said.

"I figured. What the-" A woman she'd never seen before emerged from the back door and fired up a chrome grill on a corner of the patio.

"That's Arletta," Gavin whispered as she retreated into the house. "She's one of our cooks.''

" _One_ of our cooks?"

"Yeah. She cooks for Rush too."

"We have cooks?"

"Yep," Hyde said. "Two. And a maid. You don't have to cook and clean anymore."

"What am I gonna do with my time?" Finch wondered aloud.

"Whatever you want!" Gavin exclaimed and smacked his arms down excitedly onto the surface of the pool, causing a spray of water to fly into the air and catch the sunlight.

xxxxxxxxxx

Rush joined them for dinner, and even as he chatted jovially with her brothers, she could tell that he was observing her closely and she looked up more than once to see him exchanging worried looks with her father.

Arletta had skewered chunks of steak and bell pepper and mushrooms and onions and cooked them on the grill. Rush told them they were called shish kebabs. Gavin giggled, but Hyde made a skeptical face at the ridiculous-sounding name. "You're making that up," he accused, and refused to believe it, in spite of their new neighbor's insistence.

Arletta had also grilled corn on the cob and slathered it with real butter and salted it generously. She had cut up fresh pineapple slices and made a big pitcher of ice-cold lemonade. There was even a custard for dessert, topped with caramel sauce and real whipped cream.

"Did you eat food like this in the Capitol?" Gavin asked in wonder.

"Not this exactly, but yes," she said, wiping the melted butter that was dripping down his chin affectionately with her napkin.

"Which district does this come from?" Hyde asked as he speared a cube of pineapple with his fork.

"Actually I don't think any of the districts grow pineapple," she said. "I think it's imported from another country."

" _Really_?" Hyde said in disbelief.

Her father paused with his fork in mid-air and narrowed his eyes at her, and she realized her mistake immediately. _How would you know something like that?_ his look said. But he wouldn't ask it in front of the boys.

"Or maybe it's 4," she lied hastily. "I think maybe I heard Prince say they grow them in 4."

Her eyes met Rush's briefly, and he looked confused. She dropped her gaze to her plate and concentrated on cutting a mushroom into tiny bites as she cursed herself roundly for her carelessness.

Thankfully, Hyde started asking Rush about the food in the Capitol. But she could still feel her father's eyes on her.

"Is it working?" Gavin whispered at her elbow.

"Is what working?" she whispered back.

"Faking it. Until you make it."

She smiled at him, and there was actually some warmth in it this time. "I think it's still too early to tell, but maybe a little bit."

xxxxxxxxxx

Hyde wanted to get back in the pool after dinner, but their father said absolutely not. "You have school tomorrow."

"You should take a bath in your new tub sissy," Gavin said.

Finch shrugged and made a face.

"Maybe it will help you get happier faster." He looked worried. "I'll run it for you."

"Ok," she relented.

It was a hot night, so they filled the tub with cool water. Gavin wanted to put in bubbles _and_ salts _and_ oils but Finch stopped him.

"Too much is too much," she said. "Let's just go with this one," she said as she selected a bottle of lavender and clary sage oil.

"Ok, but you should light a candle too. Like the ladies in the Capitol shows do."

"Ok," Finch agreed. "I'll light a candle." And she kissed the top of his head and gave him a squeeze. "Thank you for all of your help today. You're a good little brother."

"I just want you to be happy," he whispered, and his bottom lip trembled. "You keep smiling but I know it isn't real because your eyes don't look right. And I don't know why, because you seemed ok the first night. Is it because...do you miss Cato?"

Finch smiled sadly. "Yes. That's part of it."

"Do you love him?"

"Yes."

"Are you gonna marry him?"

"I...why would you ask that?"

"Because I don't want you to."

"You don't like him? You've never even met him."

"No I like him. Dad wouldn't let me and Hyde watch the games but I heard people talking. Before they said both of you could live he was going to kill himself so you could come back to us."

"Gavin! You're not supposed to know about things like that!"

He put his chin in the air stubbornly. "But I do."

Finch sighed. "Then why don't you want me to marry him?"

"I don't want you to go live in 2. If you marry him, he has to come here."

Finch smiled, a real smile this time. "Well you're jumping the gun buddy. We've only known each other for a few months and we haven't even talked about marriage."

"But would you marry him if he asked you?"

"Gavin…"

"That means yes, doesn't it."

 _There's no getting anything past this kid is there?_ "Yes," she admitted. "Yes I would."

"Well then he has to come here."

"Let's just wait and see if he asks me, huh?" And she ushered him out of the bathroom.

"Don't forget to light a candle!" he called as she shut the door.

Finch smiled and shook her head, but she lit a candle, because she'd promised and Gavin had been so earnest about the whole thing.

But the smile faded as she sank down to her chin in the water, and as she watched the sun set over the desert, she thought about the twenty-two children who had not eaten shish kebabs with their families that night. Who could not enjoy a cool bath with lavender and clary sage oil. Who could not watch the sun set over their district. Who would never know what it felt like to sit on the steps of a pool and soak in the sun while they sipped iced tea and swished their legs around in the water.

And she thought about Cato. And she wondered if he'd ever come back to himself. If she'd ever get to kiss him again. If he regretted killing all those other tributes so she could live.

And as her body shook and tears streamed from her eyes, she bit her arm to keep from wailing in despair.

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Her father confronted her the next morning after breakfast, once the boys had left for school.

"Did you wanna tell me exactly how it is you happen to know that pineapple is imported?" he asked.

"I explained last night," she said uncomfortably. "I heard Prince talking about it."

"No, you said you heard him say they grow it in 4. Don't lie to me Finch." His voice was gentle but firm. "Are you doing what your mother used to do? Did she teach you how?"

She couldn't lie. He was just like Gavin...or rather, Gavin was just like him. "Yes," she whispered.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a devastated sigh. "I can't lose you."

"I'm not doing it anymore," she said hurriedly. "I won't. I promise."

"But if they find out that you _did_ -"

"They _won't_."

"Promise me," he said, and it reminded her of Cato, of the day she told him she'd been sneaking around in the vents. "Promise you won't do it anymore."

"I promise," she repeated.

"Good. That's one thing out of the way. Now. I can see that you're depressed. Tell me what's going on. Do you miss that boy?"

"No." Finch was starting to cry. "I mean, I do but that's not why."

"Then what's the matter?"

"I don't understand why. Why _me_?" she asked through her tears. "Why did _I_ live through it?"

"Call me selfish, but I'm glad you did little bird. And I hope some day soon _you_ will be glad you did too."

"I know," she whispered. "I know I should be grateful. But I…" Her throat closed up and she couldn't speak anymore. She just shook her head.

Her father reached out and squeezed her hand. "Rush warned me this would happen. They lined up a psychiatrist for you. Here in 5. Before you ever left the Capitol. Her name is Dr. Campesino. We've asked her to come talk to you this afternoon."

"Before I left the Capitol?"

"Yes. Rush says Dr. Aurelius works with the Victor every year. But this year with two of you...And then it seemed obvious that Cato was in a worse place than you. So they sent Dr. Aurelius with him. But he recommended Dr. Campesino for you and she's been on standby ever since."

"How _is_ Cato?" Finch sniffled. "Do you know?"

"Not good. Brutus called a couple of times. Right now he's ignoring him. Brutus thinks he's trying to avoid everything and forget about what happened."

Finch let out a sob and buried her face in her arms. "It's all my fault," she wailed.

"How is it your fault little bird?" Her father's voice was soothing.

"That thing you just asked me about," Finch said, her voice muffled. "That you made me promise not to do anymore. That's why he fell in love with me."

"He fell in love with you because he found out you hack into the government database?"

He sounded so confused it actually startled a tiny laugh from her. She lifted her head and wiped her face on her sleeve. "No." And she told him the story of how he went from bullying her to learning from her to becoming her friend. "My _best_ friend," she said. "And he's so smart. His memory is unbelievable. And he thinks he's stupid but I just think maybe he doesn't learn well visually."

"Wow," her father said. "What a story."

"Yeah. So see." She was smug. "If I hadn't hacked like mom I might not be alive. He might have just killed me without a second thought."

"I hate that you're right about that," her father said, and rolled his eyes.

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Finch liked Dr. Campesino immediately. Everything about her was warm. Her eyes, her smile, her personality. Finch could feel it emanating from her soul and oozing from her pores.

"I know I'm being ungrateful," she told her. "I know I should be able to enjoy my fancy bathtub with a great view and my shish kebabs and custard with real whipped cream. But I can't. All I can think about is _them_. And how they can't enjoy any of it."

"It's normal," the psychiatrist reassured her. "It's called survivor's guilt."

"Survivor's guilt," Finch repeated.

"Yes. Rush wants me to tell you that he had it too. Still has it, actually. He just knows how to deal with it. He's had twenty-six years of practice. He says he'd love to talk to you about it when you're ready."

"I'm ready now."

"Good," Dr. Campesino smiled. "Because I think I have a lot to offer you. I think I can help you. But I think he can help you even more."

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"Does alcoholism run in your family?" Rush asked when she showed up on his back patio an hour later.

"Umm, no...why?" This was not how Finch had expected to begin.

"You gotta try this. Gin and tonic."

"I don't like alcohol."

"But this is different. So refreshing. Here, take a whiff." He held out a glass bottle.

"Oh my god that's awful!" Finch actually recoiled. "It smells like pine trees. Which I like normally. But not in a drink."

"Juniper berries. It's juniper berries. And it is awful. Straight. Although some people like it. That weirdo Gloss does. But you put _just a little_ with some tonic and some ice and a squeeze of lime…" He shivered. "Completely different. So good on a hot day. Let me make you one. I'll just use a smidge of gin. If you hate it you can dump it out."

He was right. It was amazing. It just might have been the most refreshing drink she'd ever had.

"Now," he said once they were settled in the shade. "Did you know the only real reason I survived my games was because I knew how to find water?"

"Yes. I've heard that. You've said it before."

"I hated myself for years because of it. Because I knew. And I didn't tell anyone else about it. I closed my eyes and pretended no one was dying of dehydration even though in my bones I knew it. But I thought...if I can't see it…"

"At my interview," he continued, "afterwards, I mean, they talked about how I only had one kill. The guy I stabbed with a spear. And when I came home my parents thought I felt guilty about him. And I did. A little. But what no one realized was that I felt more guilty about the six tributes who died from dehydration. The ones who weren't officially my kills...who weren't really anyone's kills. Because I could have gone and found them and brought them water. At least I put the guy I stabbed out of his misery. The others…" He shuddered. "What an awful way to die. To this day I berate myself for it."

"It's not your fault though," Finch tried to comfort him. "That you knew how to find water. And that the arena was a desert that year. You just got lucky."

"Aaahh." Rush smiled. "You've walked right into my trap young one. This isn't _your_ fault either."

Finch's guilt churned in her stomach. "I didn't just get lucky though Rush. I…" she hesitated, wondering if it was a good idea to share, but she knew she'd feel better if she confessed what she'd done, and Rush was probably the safest person to tell it to. "I was up in the climbing net right at the beginning. And I figured out how to get into the vents and I snuck around and I saw the gamemakers one day looking at a holo of the arena." Tears began to flow from her eyes and her throat ached. "And I memorized it," she choked out. "It's how I knew where to find those caves and where to find water. I had an unfair advantage." She was sobbing by now, but she couldn't stop herself. She poured out everything. Everything. Including how her mother had taught her to hack and how she had learned all kinds of fascinating things from before the dark days and how she'd shared those things with Cato and accidentally made him fall in love with her. Rush, incredibly, just sat there and took it all in, only stopping to ask for clarification now and then.

"Titus _who_ now?" he asked when she told him about Shakespeare.

"Andronicus," she sniffled. "Cato loved that story." She sighed. "He loved the part where Titus baked Tamora's sons into the pie and then fed it to her. He looked at me like I was a goddess when I told him about it. I think that was maybe the moment he started to fall in love with me."

"When you told him a story about forced cannibalism?"

"Yeah."

Rush gave her a funny look and opened his mouth to say something then closed it. "Takes all kinds," he finally muttered, shaking his head. "And the boy _is_ a Career. They're their own special breed."

"You're not gonna turn me in are you?" she asked, although she already knew the answer.

Rush glared at her. "Do you really think I'd do that? I'm insulted you're even asking."

"Ok, ok," Finch conceded. "I just wanted to hear it."

"I won't turn you in. Now go on. Continue."

By the time she finished, she'd been talking-well, wallowing, really-for more than an hour and their drinks were both gone.

"So what's your point?" Rush asked when she heaved a final sigh.

"It's my fault," she said simply. "If I would have done things differently someone else would be alive."

Rush narrowed his eyes at her and held out his hand. "Gimme your glass. You want another one?"

"Yeah. You can give me more than half a shot this time," she said as he stood and made his way toward the sliding glass door.

"I don't think so," he called over his shoulder. "You're awfully weepy as it is."

"I don't know if this is gonna comfort you or not," he said when he returned with fresh drinks, "but here goes. It's more random than you think. You'd probably be dead if Brutus hadn't peed on that tracker jacker nest."

"Huh?"

"Those wasps chose _that_ exact bush to build their nest. Brutus drank _just enough_ that he had to pee. Some guy was in the bathroom and he was too drunk and impatient to wait so he went outside and he chose _that_ exact bush. Your dad went for a walk that night. Took a different route than usual. Took _that_ route. Saw Brutus. Saved him. He felt that he owed your father after you were reaped. You know that. So he had Cato help you. Your mother taught you to hack so you knew all kinds of interesting information that you wound up sharing with Cato and that led to you two becoming friends and then more than friends."

"I don't know where you're going with this."

"Whose fault is it? The tracker jackers' for choosing that bush? Brutus's for drinking too much? The guy who went to the bathroom and made Brutus go outside? Your father's for choosing a different route? Your mother's for teaching you to hack? William Shakes..Shakes...whatever...for writing Titus An-whatever it's called, which Cato was fascinated with? Which made him want to see you again? Cato the Older's?"

"Elder's," Finch corrected with a sniff.

Rush smiled. "Cato the Younger's? _Your_ Cato's for falling in love with you? You didn't make him after all. You didn't manipulate him. He made his own choices. Brutus's again for having you train with him and Cato? Mine, for agreeing to let you train with them? Glimmer's for not being more interesting to Cato? For not holding his attention? For losing out to you? Cato's again for threatening you just before the games? After all, that's why you went northeast instead of west, like you were originally planning. You could have died in that fire otherwise."

Finch stared at him, open-mouthed.

"Do you blame us? Hold it against us? Me and Brutus and Cato and your father and your mother and the tracker jackers and the guy who took up the bathroom at the bar and Glimmer and this weird guy who writes plays about cannibalism? We all contributed to your survival and therefore the deaths of the others. Do you blame us?"

"No. Of course not. That would be ridiculous."

"And why are you any different? Every human being wants to survive. You don't blame Cato for surviving. If Thresh or Rue or Brigita or Peeta had survived you wouldn't be angry with them. You'd be dead...but that's beside the point. You wouldn't hold it against them, would you?"

"No," Finch agreed. "I wouldn't."

"But it's in our nature to blame. Just like it's in our nature to do everything we can to survive. And so you've chosen yourself to blame. But there's someone else you should lay it on. You're a smart girl Finch. You know exactly who it is you should blame if you just think about it. The rest of us, we had some control over our actions. Yes, you did some things that directly contributed to your survival. Like spy on the gamemakers. But a lot of the reasons you survived are random or out of your control. Who has the most control? Who oversees the games and the reaping?"

"The gamemakers and the president."

"Exactly. You wanna blame someone, blame them."

"But it doesn't do any good. It doesn't change anything to blame them. It's like a...like a cop-out."

"Does it do any good to blame yourself? Does it change anything?"

"No. But I hate this feeling too Rush." The tears sprang back up in her eyes and her voice started to shake again. "This feeling of complete helplessness. It's almost worse than blaming myself."

Rush looked at her, long and hard. Then he blinked and glanced off at the horizon before returning his gaze to her. "Oh fuck it," he muttered to himself. "Finch," he said slowly. "I'm gonna tell you something but you gotta keep it quiet. Don't even tell your father." He looked at her expectantly.

"Ok…"

"They rioted in 11. After Rue died. Because of how Katniss Everdeen reacted to her death."

Finch gasped.

"It was put down almost immediately. But people are sick of the games. They're on edge. And not just in the districts. In the Capitol too. Not everyone in the Capitol. But enough of them...and some of them are a hell of a lot higher up than you think. Some of them have direct access to the president. We're biding our time. It may not be much longer that we're stuck between helplessness and guilt. We may actually be able to do something about this. Very soon."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you may find yourself with a productive way to harness your guilt. To use it for good. Remember that when you're crying and when you're blaming yourself. That your time will come. But we can't rush it. For now you just have to be patient. Go with the flow. Get through your tour."

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"I can't tell you anything else Finch. Not yet. Just know that things are coming to a head. All of us Victors are aware of it. Brutus will let Cato know when the time is right. For now, let that be enough to comfort you."

Finch nodded. She did feel better. Much better. And it wasn't the gin, because she'd only had the equivalent of one drink in two hours.

"And you keep talking to Dr. Campesino. And you come see me a couple times a week too. You understand?"

Finch nodded again. "Thanks Rush," she said tearily and threw her arms around him. "I love you."

"Alright, alright," her mentor said gruffly as he patted her back. "Love ya too kiddo. Now get your weepy ass off my patio."


	14. Chapter 14

Rush found her by the pool late one morning a few weeks before the Victory Tour was set to commence.

"Hey kiddo," he called and she looked up from the book she was engrossed in.

"Hey Rush."

"Cato called me. Wants to know if you'd be willing to talk to him." Finch's heart leapt with excitement. "He sounded a little sheepish. He asked me to sound you out and see if you were mad at him. You know, subtly. Not outright."

"This is your idea of being subtle?"

Rush shrugged. "I told him I'd try. I never promised I'd be successful. So how about it? You mad at him?"

"No. Not at all."

"Good. I'm supposed to let him know how it goes with you and if I give him the ok he's gonna call you this afternoon. At 3. So I can give him the ok?"

Finch squealed and clapped her hands. "Yes! But Rush...what am I gonna do for the next four hours?"

Her mentor rolled his eyes. "I don't know. Keep reading. Take a nap. Eat some lunch. Go swimming." He was already pulling up Cato in his phone.

"Wait, why can't I just talk to him now?"

"He's got some thing at some school he does every day til 3. He can stop long enough to talk to me for like two minutes, but he wants to talk to you for a lot longer."

"Some thing at some school?" But Rush had the phone up to his ear.

"Yeah," he said after a few seconds. "I sounded her out. She's not mad. Got all squealy and giggly. Yeah you know. That thing she does when she's excited."

"Rush!" Finch hissed.

"Yeah. That. All girly. She says she doesn't know what to do for the next four hours."

"Oh my god," Finch groaned and dropped her face in her hands.

"Alright alright calm down boy. Jesus. You two. Coupla fucking puppy dogs. Yeah. I'll text you her number. Yeah. Alright. No problem. Bye."

He hung up and looked at Finch. "Well now _he's_ all squealy and giggly," he said, ignoring her glare.

"You are the worst go-between I've ever seen," she said.

"Well then stop asking me to be yours."

"I never did!" she called to his retreating figure.

"Yeah yeah." He waved her off. "So ungrateful. You come over three times a week, you drink all my gin and now I don't even get a thank you for playing matchmaker for you little shits."

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato took a deep breath and hit _Send_. God he was nervous. Rush had said she wasn't mad, but then again, her mentor wasn't always the most emotionally intelligent man. What if she _was_ mad? He was sweating he was so nervous.

"Hello?" Her voice was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

He launched straight into it without preamble. He told her he was sorry for not calling her and for how things had ended between the two of them at the Training Center, and she told him that it was ok, not to worry, she understood, and it wasn't like she'd called him either, and that was that.

He told her all about his life in 2, including Josten and her story and his journaling and Titus.

She told him how she'd fainted at school and about the new house and Dr. Campesino and how she saw Rush a few times a week and how she was learning to swim and her dad had a new chair, and by the time she was finished, Gavin and Hyde had come home from school and they burst onto the back patio and begged her to come help them with their homework so they could hurry up and go swimming, but they stopped when they realized she was on the phone.

"Is that Cato?" Hyde whispered, but it was the way children whisper, so loud that she was sure Cato could hear it, and she laughed.

"Yes little man, it's Cato."

"Oh. Well...never mind, we'll leave you alone. Come on Gavin," and he tugged on Gavin's backpack.

"Your brothers?" Cato asked.

"Yeah," she said, her affection evident in her voice. "They're obsessed with the pool. Swimming is their life now."

"Well go help them then," Cato said. He didn't want to get in the way of her time with her brothers if they brought a smile to her face. "Call me tomorrow. Anytime after 5:30."

"Ok," she said hesitantly. "What are you gonna do?"

"Me?" He grinned. "I'm gonna picture you soaking wet and in a bathing suit."

xxxxxxxxxx

Three weeks later she boarded the train for the tour. She had thought the one that had transported her to the Capitol after her reaping was luxurious, but this one was even more opulent.

They showed her to a room with Palladian blue walls and plush white carpeting and a marble fireplace that she could turn on and off just by pressing a button. The king-size bed, with its white eiderdown comforter, looked soft as a cloud. There was a gorgeous crystal chandelier hanging over it and there were mirrors and lush bouquets of fresh white flowers everywhere.

"Jesus, does Cato's room look like this?" she asked Fascinia, who was busy fussing over her outfits for the tour.

"No. Go look at it. It's two doors down."

Finch wrinkled her nose as she peeked in. It was just as luxurious and expensive-looking, but everything was dark and depressing. The walls were a charcoal color and the fireplace was made of black marble instead of white, and his bed linens were a steely color.

"Yuck," she said to Fascinia when she returned. "This is much better."

"That furniture is made of ebony," her stylist lectured. "Do you have any idea how expensive ebony is?"

"It's beautiful. But you can't really tell because it just blends in with _all_ of the other dark stuff."

Six hours later, they stopped in 2 to pick up Cato and Dr. Aurelius and Paris and Brutus and Acadia.

And Titus, too, apparently.

Paris turned his nose up. "He's a disgusting little rat," the escort sniffed as an apology to Prince. "But Cato is insisting, even though he tracks litter everywhere and he makes me sneeze. Really," he said, turning to Cato, "I don't understand _why_ you couldn't just get one of your fellow victors to feed him. We'll only be gone for three weeks."

"He's my therapy animal," Cato ground out as he held the cat to his chest. "He helps me control my anger. Otherwise I'd have to take it out on annoying escorts."

And he turned and stalked toward his room. "Get your stuff Finch," he barked over his shoulder. "Bring it to my room. You're gonna stay with me."

Finch opened her mouth to reply, but Prince beat her to it. "Absolutely not. It's improper."

Cato turned around and lowered his head like a bull about to charge. "You know, there are limits to how successful animal therapy is."

"Cato…" Dr. Aurelius warned.

Finch sighed and followed Cato into his room. This was not the romantic reunion she had envisioned. "Cato…" she started to say, but was interrupted by a pair of Peacekeepers entering the room, each bearing a plastic tub.

"What's all this?" she asked once they'd deposited the tubs on the floor and left.

"My stuff," Cato said.

Finch peeked into the one closest to her and saw running shoes and yoga mats and videos and a black leather book that she guessed must be his journal.

But Cato was engrossed in the other tub, and he started to pull out cat toys and treats and even a plush little hut. "Where the hell is Nippy?" he muttered.

"Nippy?"

"Yeah. His little mouse. Filled with catnip. It's his favorite. I _know_ I put it in here. I checked like three times." He turned the tub upside down, and scratched his head in confusion. Then a lightbulb appeared to go off in his head and he picked up the little hut and shook it. " _There_ ," he said with obvious satisfaction as the mouse tumbled out onto the floor.

Then he leaned out the doorway and yelled down the hall. "Where is the cat condo?"

A Peacekeeper promptly appeared, bearing a tower made of rope-covered cylinders and carpeted platforms. It was taller than Finch and it was hideous. "Where would you like it sir?" the Peacekeeper asked.

"He likes to look out the window," Cato said, and pointed to the far wall.

It was a bit excessive, really, but Finch knew better than to say anything. She and Cato had talked regularly on the phone after that first conversation, and she knew how important Titus was to him. He spent at least ten minutes every day blabbering away about him.

"Cato…?" she ventured.

"Yeah."

"I thought you got him to help with the guilt...you know...like you said. To prove to yourself you could take care of something."

"Yeah. I did. I just said that thing about anger issues to shut Prince and Paris up. I mean I do have anger issues," he clarified. "But yeah, Titus isn't for them."

"What _do_ you do for your anger issues?"

"Nothing yet. We're still on guilt. Dr. Aurelius says the running and the yoga and the journaling and all of that helps the anger. We just haven't directly gotten to it yet."

"Oh. Well...don't you think this room is a little dark?"

Cato looked around as if seeing it for the first time. "Yeah." He walked over and switched on the light. "There," he said with satisfaction.

"No, that's not what I meant. I mean, I think it's really depressing."

"Really?" He blinked at her. "I like it."

"I like mine better. Come look."

Cato wasn't impressed. "It's fouffy," he said. "But if you like it better...But what about Titus?"

"What about him?" Finch shrugged. "Bring his stuff in here."

It was a disaster. Titus was very sweet and affectionate, but he was also very energetic and playful, and within ten minutes, he'd destroyed the cloth headboard with his claws and knocked down all of the bouquets. Finch collapsed into a fit of giggles and Cato grinned sheepishly. "Good thing the carpet's soft," he said as he bent down to pick up the crystal vases which, thankfully, were still intact.

"Prince is gonna lose his shit when he sees the headboard," Finch said. "I can't wait. Now. Can you _please_ kiss me?"

Cato gasped. "I'm sorry. I just got caught up. You know, I'm not sure how I'm gonna do on this thing and I wanted to get Titus all settled and-"

"Cato! Stop talking! Put your mouth to better use!"

So he did. But after a few seconds he pulled away from her. "That was really bossy Finch."

"Well if that's not the pot calling the kettle black…" she whispered and pressed her lips to his.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dinner was a raucous affair. The interior designers had made up bedrooms for the tributes and each of their mentors and escorts and stylists and psychiatrists, but they'd forgotten to account for the fact that there were twice as many people on tour this year when it came to the dining car. All ten of them crowded around a table that was only meant to hold six, jostling each other's elbows and upsetting each other's wine glasses.

Salmon was the main entree, and it turned out to be Titus's favorite food, so he decided to join them. He hopped right up onto the table and Paris swatted at him, so he jumped back, singeing his tail on the candle flame and letting out a yowl. In his haste to escape the flame, he knocked over the gravy boat of hollandaise and he got fur all over the asparagus and Paris started sneezing and Prince yelled at Cato to lock him in Finch's room but Cato yelled back that he would do no such thing and didn't Prince realize how cruel it was to lock an animal up.

Brutus and Rush were so excited to be on tour with each other (Cato had learned from Brutus that Victory Tours were lonely affairs for mentors, who had to try to help their tribute deal with their newfound guilt even as they struggled with their own) that they had spent the afternoon together, downing scotches and gin and tonics, respectively, and so they were already three sheets to the wind and therefore no help at all.

Rush, in fact, found the whole scene so hilarious that he leaned back a little too far in his chair as he guffawed and then his feet were in the air and there was a loud thud.

They all stopped laughing immediately and looked down at the floor to see if Rush was alright. But he wasn't hurt at all, and had, miraculously, managed to hold his glass upright as he fell. "Don't worry," he slurred triumphantly from the floor. "I saved the gin."

So everyone burst into laughter again, except for Prince and Paris, who shook their heads with disgust.

And then, all of a sudden, Finch, who had been laughing riotously at the whole scene, grew quiet and her face went pale and she stood up and ran from the room.

Everyone stopped and watched in shock.

"What just happened?" Acadia asked.

"I don't know," Cato said. "But I'm gonna go find out."

She was huddled in the massive tub in her bathroom when he entered, curled in on herself and bawling. Cato slid in behind her and wrapped his legs and arms around her. "What's wrong?" he asked.

So she told him about the sponsor gala and Thresh's story about Chaff and Haymitch getting drunk and falling out of their chairs and getting gravy everywhere. "It reminded me of that story," she sobbed. "Thresh thought it was so funny...he would have loved this. He would have died laughing."

"I'm sorry," Cato whispered, and hung his head in shame.

"It's not your fault," she sobbed.

"Umm, yeah it is actually."

"No, I know it is, but I understand why you did it. I understand how you felt like you didn't have any other choice. I'm not trying to make you feel bad, I'm sorry. And it's just as much my fault as yours."

"I _sliced_ him to death Finch. When he couldn't even see to defend himself."

"And I hid like a coward underground and let everyone else-and especially you-do the dirty work of killing off the other tributes. I hid like a rat in a hole."

"Is that what you think of yourself?" he asked in dismay.

"Yes." And she buried her face in her hands and sobbed again.

Cato thought about telling her that she was wrong and she wasn't a coward and it wasn't her fault but he knew all too well that reassurances from other people only went so far and then you had to deal with it on your own. "What a fucked up pair we make, huh?" he whispered into her hair instead.

And then Titus appeared on the edge of the tub, tail raised in a gesture of tentative friendliness. He gave a questioning meow and Finch looked up.

"Awww Titus, come here," she coaxed.

Titus, delighted at the invitation, hopped into her lap and rubbed against her, purring contentedly as she buried her face in his fur.

"It helps," Cato said, his voice low, his chest warm against her back. "You should get a cat of your own after the tour. But for now we'll share Titus."

He was right; it was immensely comforting, and she resolved right then and there to stop judging Cato for fussing over cat condos and stuffed mouses filled with catnip.

"Alright," she sighed. "No sense wasting my dinner. Even though I'm not really hungry."

So the two of them returned to the table.

"Everything alright?" Dr. Campesino asked as she sat down.

"Relatively," Finch replied. She settled Titus on her lap and, ignoring Paris's glares, proceeded to feed him her salmon, piece by piece.

xxxxxxxxxx

They slept surprisingly well that first night, curled around each other under the down comforter. They kissed until their lips were swollen and their lids heavy and then Finch rested her head against Cato's chest and he slipped his fingers under her shirt and ran them lovingly over the scar she'd earned defending him, and neither of them suffered from nightmares.


	15. Chapter 15

They gave their speech in 12 the next afternoon and as much as their psychiatrists tried to prepare them, they were both retraumatized.

It was October, and it was gloomy and chilly, and everything was dingy with coal dust. Finch had heard that it was the poorest of the districts, and she herself had experienced poverty, but this was a whole new level. Even the _Peacekeepers_ looked hungry, their cheeks hollow and sunken.

It broke Finch's heart and added a new layer to her survivor's guilt. It was broader, less focused, but just as painful, just as intense. These people were suffering on a massive scale, and even if she'd never been reaped and become a Victor, she still would have been far better off than most of them.

She looked at Rush, who gave her a sad, sympathetic smile that said _I know kiddo. I know_.

But it was worse for Cato. She could tell. His chin was lowered humbly to his chest, but even so he couldn't take his eyes off of the tributes' families.

Peeta Mellark's brothers and father looked at them sadly but without malice, much as Trent Odom had watched her in the lunchroom. Only his mother glared at them.

Katniss Everdeen's mother was almost catatonic, and her eyes were empty. Her daughter clutched at her limp hand, her face puckered in pain and what Finch swore was guilt.

 _Why?_ And then it hit her. Little Primrose Everdeen would have gone into that arena if her older sister hadn't volunteered to take her place.

 _Survivor's guilt_.

It broke Finch's heart.

And what made it worse was that, for the most part, the people seemed to like her and Cato, even though they weren't all that enthusiastic.

When they left the stage, Dr. Campesino accosted her. "Remember what we talked about back in 5," she said. "I know it makes it more painful, but treat this as a memorial. Ask about the tributes. It will hurt in the short term, but it will bring you closure in the long run. Trust me."

xxxxxxxxxx

There was a small dinner afterward in the Justice Center, and Finch was seated next to the mayor's daughter. Her name was Madge and she was sixteen.

"I didn't know Katniss," Finch said to her quietly as she pushed her food around on her plate. "Or Peeta. But I'm sorry. Would you…" she gulped. She didn't want to do it, but she trusted Dr. Campesino. "Would you tell me about them?"

She wasn't surprised to learn that Peeta had been universally well-liked, and Madge's stories made her smile. But she was horrified to learn Katniss's history. "How will her mom and sister eat?"

"Her best friend Gale. Her hunting partner. He'll take care of them. He feeds his family and he promised Katniss he would feed hers if she didn't come back. And we'll help. And I think Peeta's dad will too. You know, once Gale goes to work in the mines."

"Still…how awful." The wheels started to turn in Finch's head. If Brutus could feed her family from another district, then surely she could feed Katniss's. She'd talk to him she decided. After the tour. Find out how she could do it.

"You're not happy." Madge's voice broke into her thoughts. It was a statement, not a question.

Finch turned to look at her. "No. Well, sometimes I guess. When I'm with my family. And when I'm with Cato. It's not so bad. But it's hard, and...I don't know why I'm telling you this, I probably sound so fucking ungrateful-"

"None of you are," Madge interrupted. "Happy, I mean. Every year it's the same for the most part. The Victor shows up. They put on a good show when they're up on that stage and so everyone here hates them. But then at the dinner afterward, I can always tell. They hate themselves, they hate their lives. But it's different this year. You put on an ok show, but him," she jerked her head to where Cato was sitting with Madge's father, a polite, thin, serious man whose shoulders drooped under the burden of his district's plight. "He can't hide how devastated he is. And he's a _Career_. Normally people here would hate him, but everyone just feels awful for him. It's hard enough to hate someone who overcame years of training and conditioning and almost ran himself through with his own sword so a tribute from another district could go home, but his eyes. Jesus. People are really shaken up. They're not even mad about Peeta."

 _People are sick of the games_ Rush had told her. _They're on edge_. Finch stole another glance at the mayor and realized that even though he did everything just as he was supposed to, just as the Capitol commanded, he seemed _on edge_. And here was his daughter, sitting next to her and saying things the president would definitely consider treasonous.

 _Some of them are a hell of a lot higher up than you think_. So 12 was ready. And 11 had already rioted. That was two districts. Who knew about the others?

"Finch dear," Prince said, tapping her on the shoulder. "It's time to say goodbye to Miss Undersee. We've got to get back to the train."

Finch wiped her mouth with her napkin and stood up to hold out her hand to Madge. "It was nice to talk to you," she said, and she meant it. "Thank you for being so kind, even though I don't deserve it."

But Madge pushed her hand away and leaned in to kiss her cheek. "You're forgiven," she whispered. "You didn't really do anything wrong but I can tell you need to hear it. You're forgiven."

Finch didn't know how she held it together as Madge pulled back and gave her one last look with her piercing blue eyes, but she managed it. And then Madge turned and walked away and approached Cato and Finch watched as she leaned up on tiptoe to place a kiss on his forehead and whisper to him. His gray eyes went wide and then met Finch's, and she nodded reassuringly.

They didn't say a word as they rode back to the train, but as soon as they entered, Cato snatched Titus up and went to his room.

Brutus and Dr. Aurelius pushed her into the psychiatrist's room hurriedly.

"He didn't do well today," Brutus whispered, even though the door was closed. "The president will not be happy when he sees the coverage. It is _imperative_ that he do a better job of holding it together, especially...especially in 11. You know why. I know Rush told you." Finch panicked and shot a glance at Dr. Aurelius, but Brutus shook his head. "Oh he knows everything Finch. He knows more than me I think."

"I do," the psychiatrist confirmed. "Finch we're gonna have to put him back on the sedatives."

"No!" she cried.

"Ssshhh!" both men hissed. _Peacekeepers_ Brutus mouthed as he pointed at the door.

"No," she pleaded, softly this time. "Please. He's not himself…"

"I think I'm gonna have to for his own good," Dr. Aurelius whispered. "I don't want to, but if he acts like he did today when we reach 11, it will validate the riots. He could inadvertently spark another one, and who knows what the president will do to him. It's better if he looks cold, like he doesn't care."

 _Who knows what the president will do to him_. It made Finch's blood run cold. "But what about next year's games? When he has to show up for all of the events with the other victors? What about when he has to mentor some day? Are you just gonna sedate him all the time?"

Brutus put a hand on her shoulder and leaned down, so close to her face that she could hear the words he _just barely_ breathed out, more quietly than a whisper. "What did Rush tell you? Soon, honey. Soon. But _not yet_." His eyes bored into hers, seeking a sign of understanding.

 _Not much longer_ Rush had said. _Your time will come. Let that be enough to comfort you_. Finch nodded. "Not yet," she mouthed back in agreement. "But it's time for you to tell Cato."

Brutus looked up at Dr. Aurelius, his hand still on her shoulder. "I think she's right," the psychiatrist said.

And then there was a knock on the door. It startled all of them, and they jumped and stared at one another, eyes wide.

"Yes?" Dr. Aurelius said cautiously, and they straightened themselves and tried to look casual. "Come in."

A Peacekeeper opened the door and glanced at them. "Someone is here to see Mr. Hadley."

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato sat on the edge of his bed, clutching Titus to his chest and rocking back and forth.

He didn't look up when Brutus opened the door to his room and walked heavily across the carpet. Or when he sat down across from him in the black easy chair.

"This is an awfully depressing room," a deep, unfamiliar (and yet somehow not entirely unfamiliar) voice said, and Cato's head snapped up.

And there, sitting not three feet from him was Peeta Mellark's father. Cato stared at him in shock and swallowed hard.

The man gave him a small smile, his blue eyes crinkling. "I _said_ this is an awfully depressing room."

"That's what Finch said too," Cato whispered.

"I can see you're struggling with this."

Cato nodded.

"You love that little girl. Just as much as my son loved Katniss Everdeen."

Cato nodded again.

"He would have killed you. To save her. Just as you killed him to save Finch."

"But I would have killed him anyway. Even if I'd never met Finch. Even if I'd never fallen...in love...with her. I would have killed him because I'm a career."

"You would have killed him because you were thrown into an arena where you were forced to kill everyone else so you could survive. And if he'd never fallen in love with Katniss, Peeta too would have killed others because he was forced to. To survive. We're like any other animals. When push comes to shove our survival instinct kicks in. The main difference between my boy and you is that you were simply better prepared by your district, both emotionally and physically, for the task. Not saying it's right. Not saying it's wrong. But I get it."

And he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a white paper packet and handed it to Cato. "A little birdie told me you didn't get to eat sweets before your games."

Cato stared at the package in his hand. He could smell something deliciously syrupy and spicy emanating from it and he opened the paper to find four cookies, round and dark and dense and covered in white icing.

"They're molasses," the man said. "With cinnamon. And ginger."

"I don't understand-"

"But _I_ understand," Mr. Mellark interrupted. "And I forgive you. After all, my son forgave you. Before you ended his suffering in that cave. So who am I to hold a grudge that he wasn't willing to? Now live your life son."

And then he stood and was gone.

Brutus entered not two minutes later. "We need to talk," he said.

xxxxxxxxxx

Finch looked up from the book she was trying (unsuccessfully) to read at the sound of the door opening, and let out a sigh of relief when she saw Cato. She had wanted so badly to go to him after Brutus left his room, but she knew that if he wanted to see her he would come to her. If he was holing himself up in that dark room, it meant he wanted to be alone.

"Hi," she said softly, putting the book down and sitting up against the pillows. The thin strap of her short silk nightgown slipped off of her shoulder and as she reached over to pull it back up, she noticed that Cato's eyes followed her hand. It made her smile wryly. _He must be doing better_.

He stood in the doorway in nothing but his boxers, with Titus under one arm and a white paper packet in his hand.

"Well are you gonna stand there all night or are you gonna come in?" she finally asked.

He came in and shut the door and walked over to stand beside the bed. He set Titus down and Finch lifted the covers and patted the mattress beside her.

Cato slid in and put his arms around her torso, resting his head against her breast as she ran her fingers through his hair.

"What's that you got there?" she said, referencing the packet he still clutched in his fingers.

"Cookies. From Peeta's dad. You want one?"

"Uh…."

"I saved one for you."

"Sure," she said and reached down to take the packet from him. "Thanks." She peeked into the paper and even though it looked and smelled delicious, she hesitated. "I don't want to take your last one."

"I already ate three."

"Oh." Finch smiled. "Well, let's split it. And she savored her half of the cookie, stopping now and then to feed him bits of his portion, just as she'd fed Titus bits of salmon the day before.

They were silent and then, after she'd brushed the crumbs away, he spoke. "Brutus told me. The same thing Rush told you."

"Yeah. I figured."

"I don't need the meds for tomorrow. I'm alright now. I feel better."

"Cuz of what Brutus said? Or Peeta's father's visit?"

"Both."

"Oh." They were quiet again and Finch went back to running her fingers through Cato's hair.

"You were right," he said sleepily, a few minutes later.

"About what?"

"My room. It's really depressing."

Finch chuckled and kissed the top of his head and he slid his hand up her thigh and under her the nightgown, until he reached her ribs, to run his fingers lazily over her scar just as he had the night before.

Tonight it felt different though. Tonight it made Finch hold her breath. Tonight, instead of soothing her, it made her want him to put his hands other places.

But he was already half asleep, his breath warm on her chest, so she reached over and switched off the light and then she slid all the way down onto the mattress, ignoring his half-hearted protest at being disturbed. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rested her cheek against his hair and forced herself to ignore her longing until she fell asleep.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cato woke the next morning feeling strangely at peace. His brain and heart felt soothed, as though someone had given them both a long massage, and his body was completely relaxed. He could smell lavender all around him. Real lavender, earthy and herbal. There was something silky and warm against his face and he nuzzled into it, pleased to find that it was the source of the lavender smell.

Even though his eyes were closed, he could tell that there was something different about the light in the room. Something thin and silvery and serene.

And now his body wasn't _completely_ relaxed. Something soft and round was pressed against his groin and he was getting hard, but that softness was _so_ nice, so he rubbed his hardness against it and let out an _mmmm_ at the gratification of the feeling, and he rubbed against it again.

And then he realized what he was doing. He opened his eyes and there was Finch, fast asleep, the little spoon to his big one. The strap of her nightgown had slipped off her shoulder, just like the night before, and he had been rubbing his face on her bare skin. He peeked under the covers and stifled a groan. The silk garment had ridden halfway up her body, and there was her ass, her _perfect little ass_ , clad in some black lacy bit of nothing. He had never seen it before and his almost-boner immediately completed its transformation to full-fledged hard-on. He wanted to rub it on her, right in between those _perfect little cheeks_. But she was asleep. And he was pretty sure she wasn't ready yet.

He looked up at the window and realized it was snowing. That was why the light had felt different. It was filtering through snow clouds and big fat flakes. It was _snowing_. In 11. In October.

He shivered symbolically even though he was nice and toasty and burrowed his face into Finch's neck, inhaling the perfume of her skin and her hair and pressing open-mouthed kisses onto the back of her shoulder, tasting the sweet and salt of her flesh and storing all of these sensations up because he was going to cull them back up when he got in the shower later that morning. Yes. He was going to cull them back up and he was going to wrap his fist around his cock and think about her just like this, all warm and soft and sweet while he-

And then stupid Prince Peabody ruined everything.

"Knock, knock," he said with mock cheerfulness as he opened the door. "It's time for you two to get up and at 'em."

Cato looked over his shoulder and glared at the escort, who grinned with glee as he interrupted their hibernation. It made him feel like an angry bear and as his eyes fell on the lead crystal clock on the nightstand, he seriously considered hurling it at Prince's huge forehead.

But Finch let out a delicate little sigh that made his cock twitch and then an _mmmmm_ that made it throb and then she rolled onto her back in his arms and stretched luxuriously, all the way from the tips of her toes to the the tips of her fingers and she yawned and opened her amber eyes and looked right into his and they were especially syrupy this morning.

So he forgot all about stupid Prince Peabody and his huge forehead and he smiled down at her instead.

xxxxxxxxxx

He made it through 11 without his pills. He channeled his pain and his guilt and his sorrow into anger at the president and the gamemakers. Cold anger that he would store up until Brutus and Rush and Dr. Aurelius told him it was time to take it down and use it.

So he came across as contemptuous and icy and that was exactly what he was supposed to do.

When his gaze fell on Thresh's family and Rue's, he narrowed his eyes and concentrated on the freezing air as it hit his skin. He had purposely worn short sleeves and no hat or gloves for this reason. So he could focus on the physical instead of the emotional discomfort. But they all thought he did it to show how tough he was.

 _I'll get revenge for you_ he thought as he looked at Rue's family.

 _I'll try to make this up to you_ he thought as he looked at Thresh's.

Beside him, Finch was soft-spoken and gracious and at the meal following the speech, she asked the person she was seated beside to tell her everything they knew about the two tributes, and he could tell that they all wondered how on earth these two teenagers, seemingly so different from one another, had ever come together.

But they would find out soon, Cato knew. Soon.

xxxxxxxxxx

That night, after he had processed his day with Dr. Aurelius, he sat down and he wrote a letter to Thresh's family. An apology. An explanation. But not an excuse.

 _And I know I have no right to even beg for it,_ he wrote at the end, _let alone receive it, but I hope someday I can earn your forgiveness._

After he had signed his name, he folded it carefully and slid it into an envelope and he gave it to Chaff, who had boarded the train to have a drink with Brutus and Rush, and who promised to give the letter to Thresh's grandmother when the time was right.

He would repeat this exercise, he decided, throughout the tour. For the families of the remaining tributes he had killed.

And every evening, he would slide between the sheets next to Finch to caress her scar and find comfort in her body.

And every morning he would wake, hard against her soft, and refrain from rubbing himself on her.

But every morning, after he talked himself down from splitting Prince's forehead open with the lead crystal clock, he would hobble out of Finch's bed and down the hall and into his bathroom and he would empty himself on the floor of his shower.


	16. Chapter 16

Cato dreaded 5 for reasons that had nothing to do with the games.

When the car dropped them off in front of Finch's house, he tried to swallow but he swore he had a wad of cotton in his mouth. He wiped his palms on the front of his pants (apparently all of his fluids had been squandered on sweat, and that was why he could no longer produce saliva) and he tried not to vomit.

"Hello sir," he said nervously to Mr. Crossley as he maneuvered his chair down the ramp and sidewalk to where Cato stood beside Finch. "Umm, it's an honor to meet you." He wiped his right hand on his pants again and held it out, hoping her father wouldn't notice how badly it was shaking.

But David Crossley gave him a warm smile and clasped his hand in both of his. "You too son. I can't thank you enough. For what you were willing to do to make sure she came home to us."

 _Us_. He had not realized that he should be just as nervous about meeting her brothers, but when the two boys emerged from the house and studied him warily, he swallowed back another wave of nausea.

He had won over his six and seven year olds, but these two were a little older, a little more skeptical, a little less trusting. And they were _her_ brothers. It was crucial that he impress them.

"You must be Hyde," he said to the taller one, and held out his hand. The boy shook it gingerly.

"And you must be Gavin," he said to the littler one, who, now that he was right in front of him, seemed awed by his size. "Your sister talks about you two all the time. I've heard...so much about you. It's nice to meet you."

"How tall are you?" Gavin asked as he shook Cato's hand.

"Um, six two."

"And Finch is...five one."

"Yeah."

"How much do you weigh?"

"Two hundred and twenty pounds. Approximately."

"What does approximately mean?"

"Umm, it means 'about' or 'right around.'"

"Finch weighs ninety-seven pounds."

"Gavin!" Hyde scolded, elbowing him in the ribs. "You're not supposed to talk about girls's weight!"

"They said it on tv Hyde!" Gavin yelled back, and then he turned to look at Cato again. "So she weighs…" Cato stood patiently as Gavin did the math in his head. "One hundred and twenty three pounds less than you. That's more than _twice as much as her_ you weigh! You could _crush_ her!"

"But I wouldn't!" Cato said hastily. "I would never...ever...hurt your sister," he winced as he remembered how he'd punched her when they'd first met. How he'd bruised her shoulder.

"I've gained a few pounds since then," Finch broke in, ruffling Gavin's hair.

"So you weigh more like a hundred pounds then?"

"Yeah. About a hundred pounds."

" _Approximately_ a hundred pounds." And he grinned at Cato, whose heart leapt in his chest. "Can I touch your arm?"

"Umm, yeah, ok."

Gavin's mouth dropped open as he pushed on the muscle. "And you're not even flexing! Hyde you gotta feel it! It's like a rock!"

But Hyde just looked at him distrustfully. "Nah. I'm ok."

Cato didn't know what to say, until he caught a whiff of chlorine from Gavin's hair as the little boy pulled away from him.

"Your sister says you like to swim," he said to Hyde. "She says you're really good at it."

"Yeah."

"You know how to do a cannonball?"

"What's a cannonball?" Hyde tried to keep his voice flat, but a little bit of curiosity peeked through, like sun around the edges of a rain cloud.

"It's when you jump in a pool but you curl yourself into a ball first. You know, tuck your knees into your chest and wrap your arms around yourself. So you're like a cannonball. And it makes a huge splash. I'll show you how...if you want. And then you can annoy your sister by splashing her."

"Cato!" Finch elbowed him. "You _just_ got done insisting you wouldn't hurt me!"

Cato opened his mouth, but was surprised when Hyde spoke up. "Hurting isn't the same thing as annoying, sissy. He never said he wouldn't _annoy_ you." And Hyde gave him a tentative smile, and Cato's heart leapt for a second time.

xxxxxxxxxx

As the sun began to set, the air grew cool, and Finch went into her dad's room to get a sweater for him. She was just about to leave when she heard Cato's voice right outside the window.

"Rush said you wanted to talk to me?" he asked.

"Yeah," came Gavin's voice. "I like you…but..." Finch dropped to her hands and knees beside the window as they two of them walked into view.

"But what?" Cato asked. _Was his voice_ _shaking_ _?_

"Look I'll just say it. If you're gonna marry Finch you can't take her away from us. _You_ have to come _here_."

 _Oh my god that little shit!_ Finch thought. She was so embarrassed. She loved Gavin to death, but she did _not_ like him right now.

"Fair enough," Cato said, his tone solemn. "But did she ever tell you what I told her about 2?"

"No."

And Cato told him all of it. About the prairie dogs and the thunderstorms and the long grass and the bullfrogs and the fireflies and the snowdrifts. "So maybe you'll want to move to 2," he finished, and Finch's mouth dropped open. "But I'd be willing to move here," Cato continued. "Do I have your permission?"

"To move here?"

"No. To marry your sister someday."

 _Oh. my. god._ Finch's heart was pounding so loudly they had to be able to hear it out there.

"Oh," Gavin said. "Yeah. But only if she wants to."

"Well that's a given."

"What's a given?"

"That I can't marry her unless she wants to marry me."

"But what does a given _mean_?"

"Oh. I see. It means 'of course." Or 'duh' if you're being rude."

"Oh. Ok. So...wait… you want to marry my sister?"

"Of course."

"So it's a given?" Gavin sounded delighted. Whether it was because Cato wanted to marry her or because he'd already found a way to use his new phrase, Finch wasn't sure. It didn't matter either way, because suddenly she couldn't breathe.

Until Cato answered, and then she had to exhale to keep from laughing. "Duh," he said.

And then there was some kind of snorting and shuffling and giggling and Finch peeked over the sill to find the two of them play wrestling in the sand, and her heart twisted in her chest when Cato let Gavin win.

xxxxxxxxxx

1 and 2 were the wealthiest districts, and there were lots of "important" people to meet according to Paris, so there were more events. More speeches and parties and meet-and-greets. Enough to fill two full days in each district.

Finch had been somewhat prepared to be uncomfortable in 2. She'd heard enough about the culture and the general mindset to know she'd find it disturbing, and she did, in fact.

It was dog eat dog at the Academy. They bullied each other and beat each other up and the adults just ignored it.

The crowds screamed for Cato when they gave their speeches and his fellow classmates clapped him on the back when they visited the Academy afterwards, because even though they didn't understand why he'd been willing to die for some strange little thing from 5, he'd performed like an absolute boss while he was in the arena. Eight kills was high, even for a Victor from 2, and they were impressed.

They were polite to her too, asking if they could see her scar and saying how it was pretty cool she'd taken one for their boy and complimenting her stealth.

But she was still intimidated as they surrounded her. Five of them, all the same size as Cato, and she peered over their shoulders as they bent down to admire her scar, looking for her best friend for reassurance. He wasn't far, only about ten feet away, but he wasn't looking at her because another boy, even taller than him, was approaching him.

"Hey man," the boy said, clasping one of his hands and clapping him on the shoulder with the other.

"Hey Alec," Cato said.

"Long time no see. I was surprised you didn't come around here right after your games."

"Yeah, well...I needed a break," Cato said. "I figured after twelve years and eight kills I earned a vacation, right?" Finch cringed to hear him talk like that, and looked down at the pack of testosterone in front of her. Apparently, scars were a big deal, because even though she felt like an exhibit in a museum, there wasn't an ounce of perversion emanating from them. They were literally oohing and aahing over the size of the scar and how deep the gash must have been and counting the marks from the stitches as they recalled, in disturbingly great detail, the signs of infection she'd exhibited in the arena.

"I can't believe you made it all the way to the Cornucopia before the feast with that thing," one of them was saying. "Must've hurt like a bitch."

But Finch didn't reply, because Alec's eyes were on her too and she didn't like the way it felt. "Dude," he grinned, turning back to Cato, his voice soft. "She's so fucking small, I bet that pussy is tight as _shit_. God, you _tore_ that shit up the first time, didn't y-"

And then Alec was on the ground and Cato was driving his fist into his face.

It was _terrifying_. He was like an animal. Finch gasped and waited for someone to jump in and haul him off of the boy, but then she realized that this was the _Academy_ and no one was going to stop him, especially now that he was a Victor. They were all watching him with admiration, even as blood was flying everywhere.

She had a moment where she thought about leaping on Cato's back to try to stop him, but she didn't think he'd even realize it was her and she was certain he'd send her flying into the wall. Or worse.

So she pushed past the crowd of boys and knelt at Alec's poor, bloody skull, facing Cato and she called out his name, once, twice, three times.

And then he looked up at her, his eyes wild, the knuckles of his right hand split and bleeding, those of his left white from clenching Alec's shirt.

"Cato don't _do_ this," she whispered. "Please. Be _my_ Cato. Not _their_ Cato. Not _Snow's_ Cato."

Alec coughed and sputtered as he choked on his own blood, and Finch reached out and pried Cato's fingers from his shoulder.

"Come on son," she heard Brutus say, and he stepped around her to reach down and pull Cato up. "You're scaring the poor little girl. She's not used to it like we are," and he grinned knowingly at the crowd of boys, who all murmured and nodded as though they completely understood. Cato stood, his eyes softening as he continued to look at Finch's face, and then Enobaria stepped in and led him away as a group of instructors surrounded Alec's limp body.

"He'll be ok," Brutus reassured her. He put an arm around her and led her out to the hallway and then into an empty sparring room. "I know it looks bad, and Cato _did_ knock him out, but he really only got in a few punches before you stopped him. Not enough to do any permanent damage. His nose is broken though. And it looks like he'll need some dental implants."

"Did you hear what he said to Cato?" Finch whispered.

"Yeah. I did. Don't take it personally honey, they all talk like that."

That was exactly what she was afraid of. "Did Cato talk like that?" she asked, looking up at Brutus.

Brutus sighed and pursed his lips and then he looked away from her.

"That means yes," she said flatly.

"He doesn't anymore," Brutus insisted. "He's never said a word like that about you. You saw how much it pissed him off when someone else did. You gotta understand honey, it's a mask. They all wear a mask. It's not who they really are. Or at least not most of them. Even Alec. They feel like they have to say things like that because the boys who came before them did. And so they mimic what they see and then the littler ones do it and...it's a vicious cycle. And Cato, after he met you, he started to realize it didn't have to be like that. He's _trying_ honey he really is. It's not so easy to escape twelve years of conditioning. And being back here...it's hard on him. He didn't want to come to this even, but he knew he had to. He was already struggling. So I'm sure when Alec said that about you being...you know... he retaliated the way he's been conditioned to. To dominate physically."

"He scares me Brutus. Like really, really _scares_ me."

Brutus groaned. "Please don't give up on him. _Please_. You're good for him. He wants so badly to be good to you. He loves you more than anything. He'll do anything for you. He'll run himself through with his _sword_ for you. You know that."

"I know. But-"

"But I'll tell Dr. Aurelius. They'll start on the anger management right away. They ignored it for a while because of the other stuff. They'll start right away," Brutus promised. "Don't you understand? He's the one who's gonna break the cycle. He already _has_. With you. In the arena. He can break the cycle. He's strong enough to do it. He's stronger than the rest of us. He's better than the rest of us. When he sets his mind on something...he does it. He can do this. But he needs you. He needs you to be patient with him. He needs you to love him."

Finch sighed. "I _do_ love him.

"Hello?" came a muffled voice at the door, and Enobaria peeked in. "He wants to see you," she said to Finch. "If you're willing."

xxxxxxxxxx

His knuckles on his right hand were wrapped up and through the glass in the door, Finch could see that he sat with his head bowed as he waited for her, but his head snapped up the second she turned the knob.

"I won't ever do that to you," he said frantically as he jumped up from his chair, and Finch fought the urge to step back from him. But he caught the fear in her eyes and he groaned and dropped back into his seat, his head in his hands. "I promise Finch. I _promise_."

"I don't think you would, but Cato...it's awful to see you do that to _anyone_."

"I'll talk to Dr. Aurelius. Tonight. After we get back to the train. I'll do whatever anger management stuff he wants me to do. I don't want to be Snow's Cato either. I scared myself in there. How easily I lost control and flew off the handle. I don't want to be that guy."

"The way he talked about me...Brutus says you all talk like that."

Cato groaned again. "Yes, we do. I did. But I don't anymore."

"Brutus says it's like a mask that you wear. That it isn't who you really are."

He looked up at her with hope in his eyes. "It's not."

Finch stepped forward and took both of his hands in hers and he sighed with relief. "Then you have to remember that when you get angry with people Cato. Because Alec was just wearing his mask too. That's not who he really is either. He probably thought you'd think it was funny. He was probably seeking your approval."

"God you're absolutely right," he said. "I never thought about it like that before." Finch smiled down at him and released one of his hands so she could run it down his cheek, but he caught it again and pressed it to his lips.

"Tear my shit up, huh?" Finch teased.

He looked ashamed again. "I don't think of you like that, I prom-"

"I don't know, I think it sounds kind of hot." Cato's eyes were wide as saucers and his jaw literally dropped. "Maybe I want you to tear my shit up."

He gave her a long, heavy look, and then he narrowed his eyes. "Alright," he said slowly. "I'll tear your shit up. Someday. But first," he whispered, drawing her into his arms. "First I'm gonna show you just how gentle I can be." And he placed a kiss, soft as a butterfly wing, on the underside of her jaw. Finch moaned and grasped his shoulders as her knees went weak.

And then stupid Prince Peabody ruined the moment. "It's time!" he called as he opened the door. "Time for us to head back to the train so you two can get ready for the Peacekeeper's Ball!"

Cato's body tensed around hers. "Anger management," she whispered.

" _Thanks Prince_ ," he ground out through clenched teeth.

Finch giggled. "Very good," she said as she placed a kiss on his nose. "Now come on, let's go."

xxxxxxxxxx

She was not at all prepared for the girls at the ball.

Some of them were fashionably thin and some had luscious curves. Some of them had skin even darker than Thresh's and some had skin as pale as hers. Some had sexy curls and some had sleek, shiny tresses. Some of them gave her false smiles and some glared at her with outright hostility.

But all of them had big eyes and long lashes. All of them had full, pouty lips and perfect teeth. All of them wore skimpy dresses. All of them smelled sugary sweet and had expertly made up faces. All of them giggled and touched Cato's arm lightly, although he, thankfully, seemed unfazed by all of the attention, and never said more than a few polite words to any of them, never winked or took on a flirtatious tone. Never showed any one of them more attention than the others.

But he knew _all_ of their names.

And that night, as she lay in bed with her head on his chest and his arms around her, self-doubt gnawed at her insides.

xxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, she went to Fascinia after breakfast and tried to make her voice sound as nonchalant as possible.

"I really like the way the girls here in 2 wear their makeup in," she said. "Could you teach me how to do mine?"

Fascinia clapped her hands like a little girl and squealed. "Oooo this is gonna be so much fun!"

Ten minutes later, her bathroom counter was covered in brushes and palettes and tubes and little pots of goo, and Fascinia launched into a passionately detailed description of each product, including what effect it had and how to apply it.

Finch tried to pay attention, but it was overwhelming, and she wondered if this was what she sounded like when she was lecturing Cato on history. If so, his ability to stay focused was remarkable.

"Fascinia," she finally interrupted. "I think maybe I'll learn better if you explain as you demonstrate."

"Oh, right," the stylist said.

She started with a layer of primer and then foundation and three different kinds of concealers and then she contoured and added highlighter and blush and she smoked out Finch's eyes with brown shadow and liner and added lots of mascara and then she finished it up with a nude lip gloss.

Finch loved it. She didn't look like herself at all. She was beautiful.

"Hello?" she heard Cato's muffled voice from her bedroom doorway.

"Yeah!" she called.

"Umm, this is kind of awkward, but are you ok? You've been in there for a while."

"You can come in. Fascinia is just helping me get ready." Finch exchanged an excited glance with her stylist, both of them anxious to see Cato's reaction to her makeover.

"I just wondered if maybe you were sick," he said as he entered, and then, when he saw her, his face took on a look of disgust. "Why are you wearing all that shit on your face?" he asked, ignoring Fascinia's glare.

Finch's heart sank. "Don't you like it?"

"Not really. It's not you."

"But I thought I looked pretty…"

"You do. You look hot actually," Cato said.

"I don't understand. I thought you liked this kind of thing."

Cato looked at her for a few seconds as though he was thinking hard, and then he sighed and turned to Fascinia. "Could you just…" He waved his hand toward the door. "Please."

"What made you decide to do this?" he asked after they were alone.

Finch shrugged and started to blush. She was embarrassed. "I just want to look a little prettier, that's all."

"What's wrong with how you normally look?"

"My eyes are narrow."

"So?"

"My nose is long."

"So?"

"My lips are thin."

"So?"

"Well none of those things are attractive-"

"Says who?" he interrupted.

"-and this," she continued, gesturing toward her face, "makes my eyes look bigger and my nose look shorter and and my lips look fuller. More like…" she stopped and looked down again.

"More like the girls in 2," he finished for her. "More like the girls at the party last night. More like the girls I had sex with before I met you."

She didn't say anything.

He turned toward the sink and started picking up random tubes and pots before giving up and sighing with frustration. "All of this shit...what is it even for? You got any soap? Like just a bar of soap?"

She leaned over and reached into the shower to produce a creamy white bar, which she handed to him.

"It's lavender," she said as he held it up to his nose.

"I know," he said. "You use it every day. It's my favorite smell."

He went through five washcloths as he wiped her face down with soap and warm water. He started off gently, but after a minute or two, he let out an exasperated "Where the fuck are you?" and began to scrub more vigorously. "Why did she put this yellowish shit all over your face?" he demanded.

"Foundation, you mean? To even out my skin. You know, cover up my freckles."

"Cover them up?" He was horrified.

"Yeah. You like them?" she asked in disbelief.

"I love them. _There_ you are," he sighed with relief as he made one final, tender pass down her cheek with the cloth. "This," he said as he held up the bar, "is my favorite. I like this stuff way better than all of this other crap," he gestured to the counter. "Now tell me what's wrong with your face again."

Finch scowled at him. "I _told_ you. I look like a fox. I have these weird small eyes and I have a long nose and a small mouth and a pointed chin. And freckles."

Cato smiled. "Do you know I used to try to count your freckles? And I used to look at your face and I used to wonder what it would feel like to touch it. Because it looks so soft. And now I'm allowed to _feel_ how soft it is," he said, putting his fingertips to her cheek. "Before the games I felt like I was being tortured. It was just like screaming at me to touch it. And your eyes... the color and how they turn up at the outside and how sometimes just the littlest bit of your irises peek out. Like they're teasing me and playing hard to get. And you scrunch your nose up when you laugh and when you judge me, which is a lot, I know. And it makes me want to kiss it. I _like_ that it's long. It looks good with the rest of your face. And your chin is _not_ pointed. It's narrow and…" he searched his brain for the right word "delicate. And your mouth," he groaned. "I can't even talk about it or I'll get hard."

Finch's jaw dropped and her cheeks turned pink. "You...you're just saying that."

"And you _do_ look like a fox," he said, bulldozing through her self-doubt. "But I think foxes are the most beautiful animal. And the girls in 2 with the big eyes and the long lashes and the-what word did you use? Full? Full lips. Yeah, they're hot. They're pretty. And most of them are probably pretty without all that makeup on. But I don't love them. I love _you_. And to me you're the most beautiful girl in the world."

"And you looked pretty at the sponsor gala," he continued. "And at both interviews I couldn't stop looking at you. And at the tribute parade you looked sexy. And I know Fascinia puts makeup on you for all these parties and speeches and balls, though, thankfully, not nearly as much as she spackled you with this morning. So yes, you look nice with it on, and I like it. _Sometimes_. _In moderation_."

"But all those months before the games when you and I would spend all that time together at night you always came up there like right out of the shower and that's my favorite you. I would just sit there at dinner and I couldn't wait to go up there and I'd picture you and that was the you I always saw," he rambled. "And then I'd get up there and I'd finally see you and I'd be so excited to see your face just...just like this," he said as he tapped her nose, "because I think that's when you're most beautiful. That and first thing in the morning when I wake up beside you. I just want _you_."

His eyes had never once left her face as he said all of this, and Finch was finally starting to believe him. "Really?" she whispered.

"Mmm-hmm," he said and then he kissed her on the mouth. "And Thresh thought you were beautiful too."

"How do you know?"

He snorted. "How do you think I know? I saw how he looked at you at the sponsor gala. I was so fucking jealous. He's a good looking guy you know." His face turned sad. " _Was_ a good looking guy."

Finch was looking at him in wonder. "Is that why you-"

"Yeah," he cut her off. "What I did the next day. Yeah." His voice and his eyes were full of shame. "I was so jealous. And I thought for sure you two were laughing about how stupid I was."

"You're not stupid."

"I know that now. And I know you weren't laughing at me. I just had never seen you around another guy you know. It was always just you and me. And Brutus. But he doesn't count. And Thresh was making you laugh and you were scrunching your nose up and your eyes were all lit up. So then I fucked everything up and treated you _terribly_. And then…" he hesitated, his face sheepish, "...then I had sex with Glimmer. Like it was some kind of revenge."

It hurt. She wasn't all that surprised, and it wasn't like he'd cheated on her, but still. It hurt.

"I talked to you in my head the whole time though."

"What do you mean you talked to me in your head?" Now she was just confused.

"I was like _Fuck you Finch_ and _I don't need you, I can get another girl_ and _I'm just as good as him. I'm_ _better_ _than him_ and _You're stupid for not wanting me._ That's really messed up, isn't it?"

Finch shrugged. "Maybe. But I can understand how jealousy makes people do weird things," and her eyes moved to the bathroom counter. "Do you know she used three kinds of concealer on me? Three."

"What's concealer?" he asked.

So she explained it.

And for the first time since she'd met him, his eyes glazed over as she talked and she realized he didn't give a crap about what she was saying.

But that evening, at the final cocktail party in 2, as the girls fluttered around him, he pointedly ignored them, pushing past them to lay a warm hand across the small of Finch's back, leaning in to whisper things that left her thighs wet, his lips brushing against her temple.

And she could hear them murmuring all around her about how his eyes hardly left her face.


	17. Chapter 17

Cato woke the next morning to the feeling of Finch's lips pressing kisses into his shoulder. It was sweet and soothing and he was warm and relaxed, so he didn't move or open his eyes or make a sound. He simply luxuriated in it.

He was completely unprepared, however, for the nip she gave him a minute later, just under his jaw, and he shuddered and let out a strangled sound.

She breathed in sharply and pulled back, eyes wide. "Sorry," she whispered.

"No, do it again, do it again," he begged as he turned to face her.

She giggled and leaned back into him, and the morning sunlight caught in her hair, setting it on fire, and she smelled like lavender and she nipped him again and then kissed the mark she'd left and this, he was certain, was what those Christian people who existed before Panem meant when they talked about heaven. He groaned and closed his eyes and turned his head away to offer his neck up to her. She made her way down it, and by the time she'd reached the spot where it joined up with his shoulder he was hard as a rock and whimpering pathetically. It was torture but it was delicious, and he craned even further to the side, begging her without words to continue. She splayed a hand on his chest as she started to suck in earnest and he caught himself just in time before he jerked his hips up.

And then she draped one of her legs over his, and his hand automatically went to the spot just behind her knee. He hitched her leg up further onto his and kneaded the flesh of her outer thigh hungrily.

She stopped sucking on his skin and he turned back to face her, tangling the fingers of his free hand into her hair and bringing her mouth to his as he continued to massage her thigh.

He was acutely aware of the part of her body that was pressed against his hip. It was especially warm, as though heat were radiating from it, and as their tongues met over and over again, she lifted that heat off of him and then rubbed it back onto him with a delicate little moan that was hardly more than a breath. _God it was so hot_.

Before he could stop himself, he was brushing his thumb across the soft, silky skin of her inner thigh. She gasped into his mouth and wriggled against him even more. He could feel how damp she was, and that was when he realized they had to slow down.

He tore his mouth from hers with a ragged breath. "We have to stop," he panted.

"No-ho-ho," she whined softly. "Why?"

"Because it's…" he turned and looked at the clock. "It's 8:19 and they're gonna make us get up for breakfast at 8:30 and then they'll make us get ready for the day."

"So?" she whispered. "We still have eleven minutes." And she gave his bottom lip a gentle bite.

He let out another whimper and she took advantage of his parted lips to sweep her tongue into his mouth again.

In that moment he seriously considered sliding his fingers up under her shorts where she was hot and wet, because eleven minutes was more than enough time to get her off.

 _No_ he said to himself. _No_ _._ It would be a terrible thing to do. To touch her there for the first time like this. When they would have to rush it. _No_. He would wait. He would take his time and give her the attention she deserved.

"Mmmm, no," he said, as he tore himself away from her mouth again. " _No_." He said it firmly, just as much to himself as to her. He stilled her grinding with a hand on her hip and looked straight into her blazing, amber eyes. "Think about it Finch. Today. Think about whether or not you want me to touch you like this, and if you still do by the time we go to bed tonight, I'll be _more_ than happy to do it. The right way. But I'm not doing it now. Not with eleven minutes."

She nodded and pressed her swollen lips together. "Ok."

"God I'm so fucking hard," he groaned.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

"What are you gonna...how are you gonna…"

He grinned up at her. "Well, I've got eleven minutes. I'll go in the bathroom and take care of it."

She lifted her eyes from his and looked at the clock. "Better hurry. You've only got ten now."

He propped himself up on his elbow and put his lips to her ear. "I'll just think about touching you," he teased. "And it'll take me less than 60 seconds." And he gave her thigh one last squeeze and swatted her bottom playfully.

She gave a little yelp and he chuckled and slipped out from under her.

xxxxxxxxxx

It was the longest day ever. Finch couldn't stop thinking about how good it had felt to rub herself up against Cato that morning in bed, and as they sat in the backseat on the way to the Justice Center in 1, she glanced repeatedly at his lap. She wanted more than anything to climb onto it and straddle him right there in the car so she could grind against him.

When he caught her eyes on his crotch he smirked.

 _Cocky asshole_ she said to herself and gave him a scowl.

The first event was a luncheon with the mayor and all of the other important bureaucrats. The two of them were seated next to each other and she was talking with the mayor's twenty-year-old daughter, Ebony, who was seated on her other side. Ebony hadn't known Glimmer or Marvel well at all, but she shared what little information she knew, and then the two of them fell into chatting about books. Finch knew better than to bring up any reading material that wasn't Capitol-approved, but Ebony was so passionate as she talked about her favorite books that Finch found herself wishing she could share all of the wonderful stories she'd accumulated with her new friend.

It was going so well, until all of a sudden she felt fingers brush the inside of her thigh, sending a shot of desire right up the middle of her, right to the spot where her thighs met up with one another.

That smug bastard. He had snuck his hand under the tablecloth and the skirt of her dress and was teasing her even as he continued his conversation with the guy on his left. As though he wasn't thinking about fingering his girlfriend later that night.

Finch froze in place and let out the tiniest of gasps, and she felt her eyes go wide.

"Are you ok?" Ebony asked, concern crossing her features.

"I'm fine," she said quickly. She gave the other girl a tight smile and tried to subtly slip her hand under the tablecloth to remove Cato's hand from her leg.

But Ebony hand't been born yesterday and the concern on her face quickly morphed into amusement. "You two are adorable."

"Don't tell anyone," Finch pleaded. "Please." She shivered as his fingers made another pass across the sensitive skin.

"I won't," Ebony promised. Finch dug her nails into Cato's skin and brushed his hand off roughly. He didn't fight her, but she could feel the self-satisfaction radiating off of him as he removed his hand.

"God I'm so jealous," Ebony whispered and gave her a glare, but somehow it was a friendly one, with no malice behind it. "You lucky little bitch."

xxxxxxxxxx

He continued his game for the rest of the day, except during the speech of course, which was the only real event where they actually paid any kind of honor to the fallen tributes, and then he was stone cold serious. He brushed his arm against her chest "on accident," snuck his hand onto her thigh when no one was looking, and once, boldly lifted the hair from the back of her neck to nip the skin there.

Dinner, which was blessedly low-key and on the train, was interminable. He managed to finagle a seat next to her and slipped his fingers all the way under her dress to _just barely_ graze the outside of her underwear, and she coughed and sputtered and spit her water everywhere. "Went down the wrong pipe," she explained when they all looked at her with alarm. Cato removed his hand from her crotch and patted her across the back. Exaggeratedly. With a smirk. She scowled down at her plate, but when she looked up, Dr. Campesino was watching her, one corner of her mouth turned up, a twinkle in her eye.

By the time they made it to the bedroom Finch was all kinds of hot and bothered. She wanted to shove him down on the bed and straddle one of his thighs and rub on him until...until...she wasn't sure what an orgasm felt like, but all the girls at school said you'd know it when you had one. So yeah. Until she had an orgasm.

But he made her slow down.

"You're a dick Cato Hadley," she groaned as he pinned her down on the bed, holding her wrists in his hands and squeezing her thighs together with his knees as he kissed her neck. "That's what you are. You're a dick."

"I'm sorry," he said, but his voice was full of laughter. He placed an open-mouthed kiss on her collarbone and started to work his way down her sternum. "But I promise" _kiss_ "I'll make it up to you" _kiss_ "if you'll let me." _kiss_

She gasped as he placed another kiss on the top of her left breast, over the fabric of her dress, and and then she glared at him. "And how are you gonna do that?"

He lifted his head and sat up off of her, though he retained his hold on her wrists. His eyes on hers were suddenly serious. The laughter was gone from his face. "I'm gonna make you come over and over again," he said, his voice low and threatening. "Until you can't handle it anymore and you tap out."

It made her wet even as it shocked her. To be spoken to like that. He was aggressive and domineering, and yet he left it all up to her at the same time. He left her in ultimate control. It made her feel _safe_. A thrill of anticipation coursed through her and she bucked her hips involuntarily. "Well what the hell are you waiting for?" she whispered as she strained against his grasp.

"Permission," he said simply and released her wrists. "Will you let me?"

 _Would she_ _let_ _him? Was he_ _kidding_ _?_ _She'd_ _beg_ _him if it came down to it._

But she didn't say any of that. She just nodded. "Yes," she said. "I'll let you."

His eyes grew tender and he smiled down at her, softly, and she marveled at how quickly his demeanor could change. He'd gone from teasing to aggressive to sweet in sixty seconds flat. And here she was just trying to remember how to breathe.

He sat up all the way off of her and pulled her onto his lap and he took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply. "Take this off?" he asked when he pulled back, and tugged on her sleeve.

It made her suddenly shy. She'd known, of course, that he'd eventually see her naked if they were going to do this, but now that it was actually time… "Will you take yours off too?"

"Of course." And he grasped the hem of his shirt and pulled it off. It wasn't the first time by far that she'd seen his bare chest. She'd slept on it throughout the entire tour. But this was different somehow. She'd never _explored_ it. She ran her palms down his neck and shoulders. Over his chest and the taut muscles of his abdomen and he watched her, his eyes shining.

She squeezed his biceps and smiled at him. He smiled back. "I love these," she told him, giving them another squeeze. "These are my favorite place to be."

"They're my favorite place for you to be too," he said solemnly and he started to wrap them around her.

But she stilled him and pushed his arms back to his sides. "Later. After." And she reached down and pulled off her dress, and then, with a deep breath and a mental _fuck it_ , she slipped her bra off too.

She could hear his breath catch in his throat. "Finch…" he sighed. He swept his eyes down her body, but he left his hands at his sides, and he clenched his fists. His gaze came to rest on her chest and he looked almost stricken. He looked at it for so long that Finch started to grow self-conscious.

"They're small," she apologized.

"They're _perfect,_ " he said and he put his hands on her waist and leaned down to give the top of each swell a kiss.

Finch gasped and her hands automatically went to his hair. Even those quick kisses felt so good...she hadn't realized that the nerves in her breasts were directly linked to the spot she'd rubbed on Cato earlier that morning.

He looked up at her through his lashes. "Good?"

"Yeahmmhmm," she murmured, her power of speech lost for the time being.

He lifted her off of him and gently pushed her until she lay on her back with her head on the pillow, and he straddled her again, hovering warmly overtop of her, a hand on either side of her as he bent down and kissed her again on the mouth.

"Take these off," she whispered against his lips, tugging at his waistband.

He grinned. "Will you help me?"

There was something sensual and powerful about it. About undoing the belt and the button and the zipper and pushing his jeans down over his hips. Her fingers brushed over his erection as she tugged his zipper down and he hitched his breath. But he didn't buck into her hand or make any other move toward her. He just shimmied out of them, lifting each foot one at a time to push them the rest of the way off.

When he was finished, he looked back up at her and she hooked her fingers under the waistband of his boxers, brushing her knuckles over his skin. She looked up at him questioningly and he nodded. "Be my guest," he whispered.

Finch took a deep breath. This was the part of him that intrigued her the most. The way that everything tapered down to a V. The line of golden hair that began just under his navel and led down to...she was about to find out.

She pushed his boxers over his hips, but inhaled sharply when the fabric caught on him. "Does that hurt?" she asked.

He chuckled. "No. Just go for it." So she did and he repeated his actions from before, shimmying out of his boxers and pushing them off with his feet.

Finch stared down at his penis. Cato, to his credit, simply held himself above her patiently, eyes on her face.

"First one you've ever seen?" he asked.

Finch swallowed and nodded. "Well other than in my anatomy textbook, yes." She continued to stare at it. It was huge. There was no way in hell that _that_ would ever fit inside _her_.

"Finch."

"Yeah?"

"I'm not planning on trying to have sex with you tonight." She looked up at his face. "I just want to make _you_ feel good."

"What about you?"

"I'll make myself feel good too. Later. When I'm done with you."

"You mean after I tap out?" she giggled.

He laughed and nuzzled into her neck with his nose. "Exactly." He lowered himself onto his forearms and brought his hands to her sides, rubbing circles over her ribs with his thumbs as they kissed each other.

Her legs parted of their own volition, and he settled himself between them so that she could feel him, hard against her thigh. He slid his hands up to caress the sides of her breasts with his thumbs and she sighed. She wanted him to move his thumbs in just a touch more...just until…

 _Aaaahh_. She sighed again when he brushed the pads of them over her nipples. She was amazed at how gentle he was. How carefully he touched her. As though she was breakable. It was sweet and it was nice, but she wanted _more_. She tugged on his hair and whimpered into his mouth and arched up into his touch and he let out a ragged moan and bucked against her.

"Oh my god _Finch_ ," he moaned again, this time into her neck. He brought his palms up to cover her breasts and she threw her head back as he started to massage them. "Please…" she whispered. She had no idea what she was asking for but she could at least use her manners, dammit. "Please," she said again.

Luckily, Cato seemed to know exactly what she was asking for. He bent his head and took one of her nipples in his mouth and Finch closed her eyes and saw stars behind her lids. He swirled his tongue around it as he cupped the side of her other breast in his hand, his thumb mimicking the movement of his tongue over her nipple. She grasped his hair again and held him to her chest with one hand and with her other she mindlessly kneaded the muscles of his upper back.

He moved his mouth to pay equal attention to her other breast and she just couldn't think anymore. She lifted her hips, trying desperately to find something to rub on, but the angle wasn't right and her underwear was in the way.

It needed to come _off._

 _Now_.

She thumped the back of her head against her pillow in frustration and whimpered, releasing him and slipping her hands down between their bodies to push her underwear down.

Cato moved out of the way and helped her and there she was. Completely naked in front of a boy for the first time in her life. She was scared and she was shy but it was _Cato_ and he was her best friend and he was so sweet and she trusted him completely and she wanted this so badly. And so it was ok. She was ok.

He returned to his position between her legs, and he hovered over her again, but this time he only braced himself on one forearm, and he snaked the fingers of his other hand down between their bodies, to rest on the inside of her thigh.

"Just let me know what feels good, ok?" he asked, his forehead pressed to hers, and she nodded against him.

And then he put a finger on her, oh so gently, featherlight, in fact, and her breath caught in her throat. "God you're so soft," he whispered against her lips. And then he traced that finger lightly around her entrance. She shivered. "And so wet."

He added another finger and ran the pads of them over her. Softly, slowly. It was like nothing she'd ever imagined. It was so much better. She felt like she was floating. She felt like the rest of the world had ceased to exist. She could feel herself growing wetter, and she could tell that Cato noticed too because he moaned and kissed the corner of her mouth.

And then his fingertips came to rest on a particular spot. He pressed it lightly and _oh. my. god. This is the clit the boys all talk about at school. Like it's some mythical creature. Like a unicorn. That's what this is_ Finch thought.

He started to move his fingers over it in a circular motion, and he lifted his head to look at her face. She met his eyes and her breathing started to deepen. She had never felt anything so exquisite in her life. But he frowned thoughtfully and reversed the direction of the circle and it turned out she had been wrong. _Now_ she had never felt anything so exquisite in her life. She cried out softly and arched up off the bed.

"That," he whispered, more to himself than to her. And he increased his speed and pressure.

She whimpered and butted her head against his collarbone, squeezing her eyes shut as tightly as possible and gasping for breath.

It was the most incredible thing she'd ever felt but somehow it was the worst torture at the same time. She felt like crying.

She temporarily lost all self-awareness as she began to drown in the sensations his fingers were producing, but something about the way in which she was writhing or the soft, pitiful sounds she was making had Cato concerned, because he stilled his fingers and she felt his lips on her temple and she felt like she'd been _robbed_. "What's wrong baby? Are you ok?" he whispered.

"Please don't stop," she gasped. "Please don't stop."

"Ok." He nodded against her temple and resumed what he'd been doing, and she clawed at his shoulders, grasping for what, she had no idea. She just knew she had to hold on for dear life.

Everything started to tighten and she felt like something inside of her was going to snap and she opened her mouth to tell him to stop, that something was wrong, but then whatever it was _did_ snap and she arched up into him and all that came out of her mouth was his name and she understood exactly what people meant when they used the word "release" to describe the feeling. There was no more torture, just the most delicious relief and one tear escaped from each of her eyes. But only the right one made its way down her cheek, because Cato caught the left one with his lips.

"You ok?" he whispered as her body shook against his.

"Yes," she sighed, and sank back against the pillow. "Thank you."

"Anytime." And he leaned down and kissed her tenderly on the mouth before rolling onto his side and enfolding her in his arms.

She pressed her face into his neck and shivered with aftershock, her fingers still clutching at his shoulders as he held her.

Her shock wafted down into peaceful bliss and she sighed into his skin.

"What?" he asked, and she could tell he was smiling.

"Nothing," she whispered. This was heaven. This had to be. Life _could not_ get any better than this. Lying here, safe and warm in Cato's arms after he'd just touched her so softly, so sweetly, so selflessly.

So _selflessly_.

Finch shifted against him and yes, he was still hard. "What about you?" she asked.

"What about me?"

"Don't you want me to touch you?"

His whole body tensed against hers. "Do you _want_ to touch me?"

Finch nodded. "Mm-hm." And then, before she could think too much about it, she reached down and boldly wrapped her fingers around him. She liked it because it was warm and hard-like the rest of him-and it throbbed a little and the skin was velvety soft. Her boldness shocked him too, she could tell, because his body tensed even more and his breath stopped. She couldn't keep from grinning at how wide his eyes were on her face when she pulled back to look at him. She felt so powerful.

She took her hand away and pushed at his shoulder until he lay on his back, and then she propped herself up on her elbow and draped her leg over him just as she had that morning.

She reached out and caressed the tip of him tentatively. He sucked in a breath as she ran her fingers around the rim of his head and her thumb across the slit in the top. She had heard that you had to be careful with the balls, so she just grazed her fingertips over them lightly and he jerked and laughed a little. "Tickles," he explained.

"Do I just…" she started to ask as she wrapped her hand around him again and began to move it up and down in her fist. "Like this?" And she looked up at his face.

He was looking at her with such love it took her breath away. He wrapped his fingers around hers, but he didn't look away from her face and with his other hand he reached up and touched her cheek. "You can grip it a little more firmly," he said, so she did and then he began to move their hands together.

After a minute or so, he let go and she kept going on her own. His other hand dropped from her face and he looked down to where she was touching him and swallowed hard at the sight of it. She picked up her speed and maneuvered her thumb so that it grazed the ridge and swept over the head, just like he'd done when his hand had been covering hers.

He closed his eyes and pressed his head back into the pillow. He threw his left forearm over his eyes and moaned and he reached down and squeezed her thigh with his right hand. This time he was not gentle. This time she thought he just might leave bruises. But it made her smile. It made her feel even more powerful. _She_ was doing this to him. Her wrist was starting to grow tired but she ignored it and redoubled her efforts, eliciting another long moan from him. He took his arm away from his face and looked at her with something like desperation in his eyes.

"Finch, I'm gonna...you might wanna let go so I don't…"

"Shhh, just relax," she soothed and gripped him a little more firmly to show him she wanted to see him through to the end. She leaned down and bit his neck softly, tugging on the skin with her teeth.

He turned his head and buried it in her hair and then he shuddered underneath her. "Finch...fuck...Finch!" he ground out and then she felt something warm and wet and just a little sticky on her hand, but she pumped him a few more times for good measure.

"Holy shit," he gasped as his body relaxed. He loosened his grip on her thigh but his eyes were glazed over.

Finch looked at the creamy drops on his stomach and then she looked at her hand. It was thinner in texture than she'd thought it would be. That was a good thing, she decided. She wiped her hand off on the sheet and looked down at Cato, who seemed to have recovered.

"Did you just wipe my jizz on the sheets?"

"Yes."

He laughed. "I would have given you my shirt to use."

She shrugged. "Oh well."

"Hooooly shiiiiit," he said again, seemingly out of nowhere, his eyes on the ceiling.

"What?"

"I can't tell you the last time a girl got me off with a hand job. I thought I was past that. I didn't think a girl _could_ get me off with one anymore. It's gotta have been like two years at least. Probably more like three. But you...jesus christ... _you_ touching me…."

He looked over at her and she frowned questioningly.

"It's better than _chocolate cake_ ," he said with a grin.

Finch giggled and laid down next to him. He reached down and picked up his t shirt and wiped himself off with it. And then he turned to face her, propping himself up on his elbow.

"You ready?" he asked.

"For what?"

His face took on that serious look again. "You didn't tap out."

xxxxxxxxxx

It took four more orgasms.

She learned that she liked her clitoris between his lips even more than under his fingers and she learned that it didn't hurt too bad for a guy to stick his finger in you if he was careful and patient and you were wet.

And if he knew what he was doing with that finger once it was in it was _totally_ worth it. In fact, it made Finch suspect that two fingers would be better than one...and maybe, just maybe, with a lot of patience, his penis might feel better yet in there.

But she started to grow swollen and sore and overly sensitive and she had become a limp, shaky mess and even if her tongue could have formed a coherent word, her brain could not for the life of her form a coherent thought other than _I can't_ , so as she came down from that fifth high she _literally_ tapped out on the mattress with the fingers of her right hand.

The next thing she knew, Prince was screaming-a god-awful, high-pitched scream-and her head fell off of Cato's chest as he sat up and yelled at Prince to _fuck off_ and threw the alarm clock at the escort and then the door was slamming and Prince was yelling "Oh my god Paris, I think they had _sex_!"

"Mmmmmm?" she moaned sleepily and opened one eye to find bright sunlight streaming into the room. Cato collapsed back into the fluffy pile of white cotton and down and put his arms around her again.

"Prince saw your tits," he murmured.

"Is he traumatized?" she asked.

"I think so. Or maybe it was my dick that upset him. I don't really care either way."

"What time is it?"

"Eight thirty-five."

Finch groaned. They had to be at a brunch at 1's Academy at eleven thirty. "Alright, I'm up, I'm up," she tried to convince herself and pushed up off the mattress.

But Cato tightened his arms and drew her back down with a _you're not going anywhere_ and she let out an _oof_ and fell back against his chest. He drew the down comforter up over them and burrowed his face into her hair.

"Go back to sleep," he commanded. "Rush or Brutus will yell when we _actually_ have to get up."

"You can be downright bossy," she told him.

"Old habits," he said and slung a leg over both of hers. "We wouldn't be in this relationship if I wasn't so bossy."

She couldn't argue with him there.

xxxxxxxxxx

One hour later, Brutus knocked on the door. "Alright you two!" he called. "You really do have to get up now. Your stylists are getting their panties in a twist."

When they emerged into the dining car to pour themselves mugs of coffee, their mentors gave them wry smiles.

Finch blushed. "It wasn't what you think," she started to say, but Rush cut her off with a hand in the air.

"I don't need to know _what_ it was," he said. "It's your business and you're both old enough. But Christ, lock the door next time huh? You practically gave poor Prince an aneurysm." He jerked his thumb towards the District 5 escort, who was glaring at them and holding an ice pack up to his forehead.

"And you broke the alarm clock," Prince spat. "It was _crystal_."

Finch tried to hold back her giggle, especially since Cato was supposed to be working on his anger issues, but she couldn't. It escaped through her nose in a very unladylike snort and then Brutus, who had also been holding back his laughter, spit out a mouthful of coffee all over the tablecloth. Cato and Rush immediately joined in and the four of them were holding their sides they were laughing so hard. Prince only made it worse when he huffed and stomped off.


End file.
